


Redemption

by silencethroughwords



Series: Team Winchester [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, British Men of Letters, Brother-Sister Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Guilt, Hunters & Hunting, Men of Letters, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Souls, Spells & Enchantments, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-17 00:26:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 95,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13647564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silencethroughwords/pseuds/silencethroughwords
Summary: The Winchester middle sister returns, courtesy of Amara, after seven years in the Cage, to what feels like a brand new family.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second installment in the Team Winchester series. I don't think it stands alone all that well without its prequel.

 

_(art by[@armellin](https://armellin.tumblr.com))_

* * *

 

You felt _everything._

The fresh air that inflated your lungs, the grass that tickled the back of your palm, the dampness that seeped through the back of your shirt. The light that invaded your vision, only to be dimmed later to reveal trees, blocking the night sky. The tears that rolled down your cheek. The cold burn in your chest. The back of your throat, constricted, and scratchy, and present. Too present; its movements syncing with the screams you heard that seemed so far away.

Yours.

It took a moment for your heartbeat to slow down, for your brain to gather all the input that flooded it seemingly out of nowhere. You closed your eyes, relishing the silence that was slowly winning the battle with your senses, only to be interrupted by a yank to your upper arm that lifted your back off your ground in one, swift move.

“Hey, hey, hey, you’re okay, Y/N. You’re okay.”

Against your better judgement, you let yourself be grabbed by the source of the voice. He pulled you into a tight, albeit awkward, hug. Slowly, carefully, you re-opened your eyes, and shifted your weight so you were back on the ground again. By then, your senses had calmed down considerably, except for the hitch in your breath and the slight chill in the air. But that was easy. Manageable.

What _wasn’t_ manageable was the wave of familiarity that hit you when you saw his face. If it weren’t for the acute awareness of everything your body was capable of feeling, if it weren’t for the _smell_ , and the _warmth_ , and the _changes_ , you would think this was another trick. But it was too real, too good, too _calm_ to be a trick. It felt like you hadn’t been that calm in _centuries._

“ _Dean?”_

His eyes were wide, and unreadable, but his smile was _brilliant._ “Hey there,” he said, “Long time no see, huh?”

_Understatement._ “How long?”

“Almost seven years,” he answered, “You feeling okay? You were a little out of it.”

_Seven years,_ you thought, _so that’s how long it’s been for them._ “I’m - I’m _great._ Alive, for one,” you said, “I _am_ alive, right?”

A laugh escaped his throat. “Yeah,” he said, “Yeah, you are.” He got up, extending a hand to help you do the same. “I can’t - I can’t believe it myself.”

“Did you just say _alive_?”

Your spin around was sharp, as sharp as the hike your heart took the moment your eyes found _hers._ She was standing a few feet away from you, in a nightgown - _the_ nightgown, her feet bare, her eyes as big as Dean’s, her brows furrowed. You tried to gather the words - _any_ words - but none of them could come to the surface.

If this _was_ another trick you were going to find a way to murder that son of a bitch once and for all. Archangel or not.

“Yeah, Mom,” Dean said, dropping an arm on your shoulder, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Y/N - we - we lost her, too, a few years ago,” he explained, “I swear, I _swear_ I’ll tell you everything,” he said, “You too, Y/N. I just - right now - I can’t - I just - _wow._ ”

Your mother’s face softened at Dean’s state, before turning her attention completely to you. “You look exactly the same,” she said, crossing the distance between you, “You haven’t changed one bit since you were three, you know that?”

“Are we absolutely sure this isn’t heaven?” you asked, your tone too sharp to be sarcastic. Too constricted. It wouldn’t be that far-fetched; it would actually be way more plausible than you being raised back to Earth. The lore existed; some people believed that souls can make it to heaven after they’d redeemed themselves in hell. If they’re good. If they don’t break. If they were sent to hell after they died. If they _weren’t_ in the most secure part of the pit to be ever created.

None of those were you.

“Honestly, kid, I’m not sure of anything right now,” Dean said, “But tell you what? Let’s go find Baby, and some cell reception.” He tugged on your hand and reached out to take Mary’s as well. “Then we’ll go home. Sam should be there by now. Man, I can’t wait to tell him.”

“Home?” you asked, “Bobby’s?”

As if snatched out of a trance, Dean grimaced and started walking. “No, sorry,” he said, “Bobby’s been gone for five years now.”

“Five? So that day - when -” _When Lucifer snapped his neck_ “- he didn’t -”

He shook his head. “He came back. Almost right away. It was something else that got him.”

“Oh.”

“So does this happen often to you?” Mary asked, “People dying, and coming back from the dead?”

“No,” Dean said, then paused. “Actually, yes, but it’s almost never like - like _this._ ”

“Like what?”

“Like everything I could ever wish for,” he said, “All at once. No strings attached. No big bad looming over our heads. Nothing. Just -” He squeezed your hand “- Just us.”

\---

“You _live here?_ ”

You shrugged, hopping down the stairs of the bunker, right behind Dean. “I don’t know,” you said, “Between God’s sister bringing us back from the dead and Baby still being in good shape, us being legacies of some super secret organization that went defunct before we could know is the _least_ weird thing I’ve heard today.”

“I see you’ve retained your sense of humor,” Dean said, rolling his eyes.

“I mean,” you said, “How do you even get the money to keep it running? Even with the credit card scams, we always had _just enough._ And you make it sound like the world almost came to an end once or twice since, uh…”

You glanced back at your mom, not really sure how to proceed; Dean had given her - you both - the brief headlines. The who’s who of dead Winchesters and Co., and just the mention of the apocalypse, what the demons wanted, why she had to die. But he stopped when it got to any part that had to do with you. You weren’t sure why, and you were still getting used to being back in your body, taking in your surroundings, but the sting was familiar, and the reminder was obvious.

In your moment of hesitation, Dean caught your eye, but instead of the silent blame you expected, his expression was actually soft, sympathetic. “Yeah, well,” he said, puffing his chest with a dramatic show of pride, “Not that you would know anything about good cars, but -”

“Excuse _you_ ,” you said, a smile tugging on your lips. “I know everything about cars. Or did you forget that I actually spent more time at Uncle Bobby’s than anywhere else? What did you think we did when we weren’t hunting?”

“Watch Tori and Dean?”

You smacked his shoulder, earning yourself a slight push further down the stairs. “Shut up!”

He laughed, then raced you down to what looked like a library. “Hey, Sam! Sammy!” he called, “Cas! Guess who’s here?”

“Cas? _Castiel_?” you asked, stiffening, “The angel’s still around?”

“ _Angel?_ ”

“Oh yeah angels are a thing,” you told Mary, turning around to face her, “Wings, halo, miracles, and lots of smiting.” _Lots of judging, too._ “Does he live with you guys full-time?”

When Dean didn’t answer, you frowned, walking to his side, focusing your gaze on where he was staring. “Son of a bitch.”

Blood. On the floor, on the wall, along with an angel banishing sigil. “Sam! _Sam!_ ”

“Fuck,” you mumbled, running a hand through your cropped hair, “It hasn’t even been a day.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Dean said, drawing his gun and reaching beneath the library to fetch another one, pausing a second, his eyes jumping between you and Mary.

You nodded towards your mom - _give it to her._ You were brought back in the exact same attire you’d jumped in the cage in, which included a switchblade that would have to do for now. She, on the other hand, was completely unarmed.

It didn’t take long before the three of you spread out; Mary stayed in the library, while Dean guided you around. It was easier that way, you thought. You were used to hunting with Dean. There was no explanation required. A simple nod and you were both on the same wavelength.

You didn’t have time to stare at the details on this place - this would have to wait another time - but when both of you found nothing, and you stumbled upon the bunker’s honest-to-God _arsenal_ , you stopped. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You sure?” he asked, “You’ve only been back a few hours, I don’t know -”

“ _Who are you?!”_

Dean raised his gun again and both of you ran towards the source of Mary’s voice. But instead of the intruder you’d thought she found, she was pointing her gun at Castiel. “Whoa, whoa,” Dean said, “Easy. He’s a friend.”

Castiel was looking at her with the same hostility she was giving him. _Welcome to the club, Mom._ “Who are _you?_ ”

Something else caught your eye, though. “Did you honestly get a different trench coat that’s the exact same color?” The three of them turned to you, all stares and no words. “It’s a weird day. Give me a break.”

“Impossible,” Castiel said, “You’re back. _How?_ ”

“Amara,” Dean said before you could, “Also, Cas, you know who this is? This is Mary. Winchester.”

“Your mother,” the angel breathed, though his eyes were still fixed on you. His squints weren’t as damning as you remembered them to be, so that was a plus. “How are you still standing?”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I -” He stopped. “This can wait. I believe Sam’s been taken.”

As if on cue, all three Winchesters in the room cussed. “Are you sure?” Dean asked, “What happened?”

“There was a blonde woman…”

\--

You understood. What? You _did._

Dean’s always had a soft spot for Mary. Both of you lost her at the same time. Both of you witnessed the same fire, ran out of the same door. But years down the road, he was the only one, you thought, that was truly weak when it came to anything that had to do with your mother. You missed her. You ached for her. You echoed Dean’s whines for years, thinking it was the right thing to do, thinking you had to, given your dad’s complete 180 after he found out about the supernatural, until Sam was old enough to tell you that no, this is not okay. This is not normal. This is not healthy.

But healthy or not, Dean’s absolute awe with Mary since she’s been back was understandable at best, expected at worst.

That, though, didn’t justify the calm attitude he was projecting towards this whole Sam thing. It was true that you hit a dead-end. That the cafe where you’d parked when you found the car Dean had caught on the traffic cams was protected even from his buddy at the FBI was the only place you could regroup right now without losing time and energy.

But understandable or not, it got on your nerves.

“Seriously.” You crossed your arms over your chest. “Look, Mom, I get it, it’s hard being back,” you said, “I know you’ve been away longer -” _in Earth time anyway_ “- and _believe me_ , I get it, but Sam’s out there and we don’t even know if he’s okay -”

“Y/N.”

“No, Dean,” you said, “I don’t know what happened between you two but he needs our help -”

“ _Jesus Christ will you shut up?_ ” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not ignoring Sam, for fuck’s sake,” he said, “But this - this is normal, okay? Panic helps no one. We’ll figure it out. We’ll find him. And he’ll be okay.”

“How can you be so sure?” you asked, “I’m not the only one who’s _back_ , Dean, you know that, right? Surely you must’ve seen something - omens, maybe?”

“Omens - what?”

You glanced at your mother, who was looking more suspicious of the two of you by the second. “ _You know._ ”

“I really don’t. Look, it’s been a while. Walk me through it.”

“You know,” you said, your voice quieter this time around, “ _him.”_

 

“You mean Lucifer.”

You closed your eyes for a second, afraid if you even looked in Mary’s direction she’d read your mind. She’d know what you’d been up to. Where you’d actually been. “Yes. He broke out - was summoned out, my theory is,” you breathed, “He could be still looking for a vessel,” you explained, not sure how much time had actually passed since the devil was broken out of the Cage. “And Sam…”

Dean sighed. “No,” he said, “This isn’t Lucifer. You heard Cas, it was a woman - human. That’s just not his MO.”

“I thought you came back the same time I did.”

“I did.”

“Then how do you know so much about where the devil himself is?”

It was Castiel who intercepted your mother’s apparently excellent observation skills this time. “I think I have a lead.”

\---

Between Dean’s escalating anger, whether because of you or the whole situation, you weren’t sure, and Mary’s unreadable stares burning through the back of your neck, it was an actual relief to team up with the angel Dean seemed to trust with his life, even if he _did_ think, the last you saw of him, that you were some sort of evil incarnate.

“You’re not evil. What you did, I believed at the time, was evil.”

“So you can still read minds but couldn’t just zap us to Missouri?”

He sighed. “It’s complicated,” he said, “After the fall, the powers grace derives from heaven have been hugely affected.”

“You fell?”

“We all did.”

“Sorry, what?” You turned around in your seat in the truck. “All? All angels fell?”

“Forcibly so.”

“Is it because of what we did?” you asked, “Locking Michael away? He used to run heaven, if I remember correctly.”

“No,” he said, simply, with no further explanation, parking the truck in front of the last abandoned property both of you found, “You are so much like your brothers. I suppose I was never around you enough to see it.”

You tucked one of the guns you’d snatched out of the arsenal at the bunker in your new holster, jumping out of the truck. “You were around _enough_.” Both of you walked into the back yard. It was too dark, too quiet, to be an actual lead, but you had to follow through, just in case. “What did you mean earlier? When you asked how I was still standing?”

“There’s no one here. Not for miles.”

You put your gun down. “You sure?”

“Yes,” he said, “This isn’t one of those powers derived from heaven. My grace is capable of detecting life on its own. It’s how I knew the woman was indeed human.”

“Aha.”

“It’s why I asked how you were still standing.”

“I swear,” you said, already exhausted at the thought of him being against you _again_ , when you’d _just_ gotten back, “I’m not doing anything. I’m not hiding anything. I just woke up, and here I was.”

“It’s not that,” he said, turning back now, with you on his tail, to the truck. “I don’t suspect you’re lying. Quite the opposite, I know you’ve been truthful so far,” he said, “But the _thing_ is I can’t see you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know your body’s human. Every bit of it,” he explained, “But _you_ \- you’re completely shielded from me.”

“Could it have something to do with God’s sister - Amara?” you asked, “She had to reassemble me, didn’t she? Maybe there’s something different there.”

“It could be.” He jumped back up in the driver’s seat. “But this isn’t the case with Mary.”

“Mom was in heaven though, wasn’t she?”

He grimaced.

“Her body was burned, but her ashes remained.” Scattered as they were. “My body was obliterated before I even made it to the Cage. I’m guessing I had to be recreated. I’m also guessing she doesn’t have a lot of experience doing that herself.”

Castiel’s eyes were full of arguments, you could tell, but he didn’t seem to be willing to let on. “I don’t know. Like I said, this is new territory to me.”

“Same.”

“I know.”

\--

“So?”

“Dean said he’s on his way,” Castiel said, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning back on the truck, and facing the heavily-warded property. “I suppose we’ll have to wait, then.”

“What? _No._ ”

“I can’t go in there.”

“So? I can!”

“You haven’t hunted since you’ve been back.”

“Dude. Come on,” you said, “It’s the only thing I know how to do.”

“If anything happens to you…”

“It can’t be worse than what’s already happening to Sam,” you reasoned, “He’s in there right now.”

“We can’t be certain.”

“I’ve hunted on way less.”

“But Dean said…”

“Screw what Dean said!” You turned into the backseat and got out your new gun, triple-checking that it’s loaded. “I’m going in there. You don’t hear back from me in half an hour, let Dean know. At least he’d know to bring reinforcements then.”

Truth was, it was easier that way. For one, you couldn’t possibly wait _six_ more hours until Dean made it here. And for another, while you were used to hunting with your brother, you’d hunted solo a lot more often. This was easier, more natural. Like muscle memory. There’s no need to dwell over what happened, or what Castiel meant by what he said earlier. There’s no need to think of what your mom could be asking Dean now, about you, about what happened to you, and what he could be telling her. There’s no need, and there’s no time.

You had to find Sam.

“Then let me help you.” You half-expected the angel to boost you with some of his mojo, but all he did was hand you a phone. “I have another one,” he said, “We can communicate this way.”

“Or I could pray to you.”

He shook his head, breaking eye contact. What wasn’t he telling you? “I can’t record your prayers and send them to Dean,” he said, “For evidence.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but agreed to the phone. As long as he didn’t block you from going in. “Fine.”

Once you had your phone on you, and Castiel listening on the other side, you held one of your guns with both hands and carefully walked inside. As soon as you stepped foot, though, your heart clenched. Like you knew something was wrong, but you weren’t sure _what._ Could be anything, though. Could just be the nerves from _this -_ everything about this. So you kept walking.

There were no cars; tracks were going in and back out. If there’s anyone here, they can’t be many; it wasn’t big enough, and aside from the warding, there wasn’t enough surveillance outside. Your guess was, also given the communication on that woman’s phone from earlier, the one who crashed her car into the Impala, that there was only one other person here. Doors were locked, as was what looked like an entry to the basement. There was a window, though, looking inside. You were about to walk towards it when you stopped cold. Something didn’t just _feel_ wrong. Something _was_ wrong. You could almost physically feel it, but there was nothing that was actually there.

“Hey Castiel?”

“Yes?”

“Is there a way to reveal the wardings?”

“It really depends on what type they are,” he said, “I can feel some, but not all, not to a degree to which I can be absolutely certain. Why do you ask?”

“Nothing,” you lied, “Just thought if you could see the wardings, we could power it down.”

Maybe it was a different type of warding. Maybe this was a warding against humans, which is why you could feel it. Maybe it was all just hunter’s intuition. A voice, a female voice, coming from the basement, snapped you out of your thoughts.

“ _Good morning, Sam_ ,” she said. The window. “ _Let’s start again, shall we? Take our time.”_

“Y/N?”

_Not now, Castiel._

If you could hear her, she might be able to hear you. You looked up at the sun - still pretty early. If you could angled yourself properly, you might be able to look inside without casting a shadow, or drawing attention to yourself. Just when you were about to move, though, the feeling from earlier hit you again. You swallowed back your questions - those could wait. For now, you decided to trust it, and played a little game of _hot and cold._ You found yourself, as a result, walking in circles, like you were walking through landmines whose locations you had memorized, until you reached the window.

You crouched down, and with some squinting, you were able to make out the scene in front of you.

Sam was tied to a chair, his hair thick with sweat, his clothes worn. If you hadn’t heard her call him Sam earlier, if you hadn’t known you were looking for him, it might’ve taken you a minute to recognize him. He wasn’t, in any way, the same Sam you last remembered from 2009. He resembled him, sure, but it wasn’t the same person. Not from where you were standing anyway.

The woman whose voice you’d heard earlier started again. “ _I would like names and locations of every hunter, the passcodes to every database held in the bunker, and then - oh, yes - let’s do discuss your relationship with the demon Ruby.”_

Who the _fuck_ did she think she was?

You focused on the glass of the window - old. They didn’t have enough time, or maybe didn’t care enough, to replace it with something more durable. It could take a couple of shots, though, before it’s completely broken. If she had a gun, by the time you’re in there, she might not just shoot you, she might shoot Sam as well.

Slowly, you walked away from the window, hoping to be out of range enough to talk to Castiel, who’d been eerily silent for a while. “Hey. New plan.”

“What?”

“I need a distraction,” you said, “Something big. Enough to draw whoever’s in there out.”

“What do you propose?”

“You think you can Molotov the place?”

“ _What?_ ”

“Molotov,” you said, “Like you did with Michael.”

“I don’t think that’s wise,” he said, “Nor is it feasible. I don’t have any holy oil, or anything that could do that sort of damage.”

“Well, can you be bait?”

“ _No._ ”

“ _I_ can’t be bait,” you whispered, “I’m the only one with a fighting chance.”

“Then think of something else. Or get out. While you can.”

Yeah, _no._ You hung up on the angel. _Fuck it_ , you thought, _let’s go old school._

So like the world shifted and it was the late nineties again, you picked up a rock, crouched down so you were window-level again, and threw it as hard as you can inside, running towards it. The sound was enough to earn you a yelp from both of them, and she picked up a knife from her laid out collection. What was the saying, again? _Don’t bring a knife to a gun fight?_

Before she could even angle her weapon to attack, you’d pointed your gun towards her and shot. First one missed, second one hit her shoulder - but the third? _Bullseye._ She fell to the floor with a thud, eyes still open.

“Who’s out there?!” Sam yelled, trying to move his chair so he could see, breathing heavily. “Hey!”

Still holding your gun, waiting for anyone else to show up, you wrapped your other hand in your shirt and broke the rest of the window off. Sam was still straining, trying to get a good look, when you stuck your head inside, waving at him.

“Hiya, Sammy.”


	2. Chapter Two

“ _Y/N?_ ”

Sam’s eyes weren’t hopeful like Dean’s, or confused like Castiel’s; they were _devastated._ Like someone had just beaten the living shit out of him which was, you supposed, true. He didn’t turn to the still-bleeding body on the floor. He didn’t try to free himself now that his captor was dead. He didn’t do as much as blink. He just stared at you, and stared, and _stared_ , and the longer he did, the harder he did, the more you felt yourself tear up.

“Yeah, Sam,” you breathed, tucking your gun in your belt now that you made sure no one else was there. “It’s me.”

“ _How?_ ” He swallowed. “ _When?_ ”

You moved behind his chair to untie him. “God’s sister,” you answered, “Yesterday.” You turned back around to face him, your hand tracing along his hairline - _a few slashes, some to his shoulders -_ “Who _was_ she?” _Is that a stab wound? Yup, definitely a stab wound. Stab and burn._ If she wasn’t dead already you’d kill her again.

“She was - uh…” He crossed his arms around himself. “Men of Letters - they’re -”

“I know.” You wished your jacket was big enough to go over him. “I thought they were defunct though?”

“British Men of Letters,” he explained, still in a daze, “How do you know?”

Once you were pretty sure standing up wouldn’t kill him, you stepped back, holding your hand out for him, like you did when he was a kid. “Dean told me.”

“You saw Dean?”

You threw his arm around your shoulder. You might not be big enough to be able to carry him, but he could still use you as a crutch. For his busted foot. “He was the one who found me.”

“In the _Cage? Did he end up there?_ ”

“No - _what?_ ” You stopped, mid-way across the stairs. “Are you on something? Did she give you something?”

He grunted his way up. “That’s beside the point.”

You sighed, making your way out of the building, still trusting that sense to guide you around the ground, your brother leaning in a little more with every step. “I don’t know how it happened exactly _but_ ,” you said, “that Amara person - Goddess - whatever brought me back - and not just _me._ ”

“What do you mean?”

As soon as you were out of the warded zone, the angel ran towards you, and you could feel Sam’s muscles relax. “Who’s the last person you’d expect right here, right now?”

“Dean?”

“Dude, seriously,” you said, “He’s on his way. He’s the one who practically found you,” you defended, “He’s worried. I just couldn’t wait for him to get in. Don’t hold it against him.”

“Dean’s _alive?”_

“What?”

“What?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, pressing two fingers on Sam’s forehead. “He’s alive. God and Amara left, and they rid him of the bomb.” He paused. “Before they left, they brought your sister and your mother back. What happened in there? I heard gunshots.”

Sam was physically healed, but it didn’t stop him from looking any less constipated at this entire conversation. “Did you just say _my mother?_ ”

Castiel nodded. “She’s on her way with Dean as well,” he explained, “He says it’s ‘weird.’”

“So you’re back,” Sam recapped, “And you’re you, and you’re okay?”

“Am _I_ okay? Are _you_ okay?” you asked, “You -”

“Perhaps the urgency in my _question_ was not clear enough,” Castiel interrupted, “ _What happened in there?”_

Sam was about to answer him when you put a hand on his chest and shook your head. “It’s nothing. It’s over. Let’s go.”

\--

**Lawrence, Kansas**

“You’re staring again.”

“Sorry.” You hopped on the motel bed, taking your eyes off your younger brothers for a second. “Force of habit. I know Castiel healed you but, still.”

Sam smiled. Kind. Warm. “I told you,” he said, “I’m okay. I really am. I’ll be even better when Dean brings me something to wear.”

You’d stopped at a thrift shop earlier. Brought him the only t-shirt they had in his size. It wasn’t your fault it _happened_ to have clowns. That was only an innocent coincidence. “It’s okay to not be okay,” you said, “Someone told me that a while ago.”

“ _Really_?” He turned on his bed, his elbow dipped in the mattress. “You wanna have a heart-to-heart?”

You narrowed your eyes at him.

“You just came back from the freakin’ _Cage._ ” There it was. “With - with _Lucifer_ and _Michael -”_

You shrugged. “Would you believe me if I told you I didn’t remember?”

He scoffed. “No.”

“Fair enough.”

He anchored himself and turned to face you completely, sitting a mere foot away. “You don’t have to tell me everything - or anything for that matter,” he said, “But know _this_ , Y/N: I’m here for you,” he promised, “Whatever it is. Whatever you need. Whenever you need it.” He moved his hand to your shoulder. “I won’t fail you this time around, I promise.”

You licked your lips. “Don’t talk like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you could ever fail me, Sam.” You could feel yourself crumble under the weight of his hand. “You’re my _little brother._ You _can’t_ fail me if you tried. And you sure as hell don’t owe me anything.”

He breathed another smile. “I’m older than you now.”

“Fuck no.”

“It’s true,” he said, “You’re what, twenty-nine? You’re practically an infant.”

You groaned. “ _Stop.”_

“Don’t speak to your older brother like that.”

“I’m still legally older than you.”

“You’re legally _dead._ ”

“I hate you _so much right now_.”

His sigh was dramatic. “You know, when you grow up, you’ll realize that I’m just looking out for you, little sister.”

You threw your jacket at him. “Screw you.”

“Real mature, Y/N.”

You laughed. You laughed, and you realized this was the first time you truly did that since you came back. “So, tell me,” you said, “What happened - _after_? Did you two quit like you said you would? Have normal lives?”

He thought about it for a second. “Yeah,” he said, “For a while. Dean went back to Lisa and Ben -”

“Does he still not know if it’s his kid?”

“You know, at one point I practically begged him to get a DNA test done because he wouldn’t stop talking about it,” Sam said, “But he never did. I don’t know what he was worried about more - that he’d be his kid, or that he wouldn’t. Especially now.”

“Hm?”

“He had Cas wipe their memories of him after they got kidnapped by demons.”

“ _Fuck._ ”

“Yeah.”

You rolled on your side. “And you?”

“Me?” He leaned back on the head of the bed. “I just, uh…”

“Did you find someone?” you asked, “You tend to find someone.”

“No, that was when Dean went to Purgatory. I hit a dog and ended up living with the vet who took care of him.”

You blinked. “I’m not sure what part of this sentence is the least surprising.” He rolled his eyes. “So? What did you end up doing?”

“Teaching, actually,” he said, “I got a new identity, went full legit for a while. Taught Mythology and Religion at a community college a few hours away from where Dean was.”

“ _Professor Winchester?”_

“Campbell, actually,” he corrected, “But yeah. Pretty much.”

“ _Dude._ ”

“I know.”

“I’m so fucking proud of you, you have no idea,” you said and he beamed, “What the fuck happened, then?”

 _Shrug_. “The life, I guess?”

“You wanna go back?” you asked, “I can stay with Dean, help him out with hunting, and you can just go _back_ and -”

“Oh. No. No, no, no,” he shook his head, “I don’t want to go back. This is it for me. And you know what? It’s kind of growing on me.”

You grimaced. “Dean said this was normal,” you said, “Kidnap. Torture. Running around from every big bad that comes knocking. Running _towards_ it.” He mirrored your expression. “I remember when we were small fish, you know? Just a few hunters. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“It has its ups and downs.”

“I don’t think I can bear to see you the same way I saw you today again,” you said, “I don’t know how Dean does it, honestly.”

“Barely, is how.”

“What did she even _want_ from you?” you asked, “Hunter names? What the fuck? If she doesn’t know American hunters how the fuck has she been keeping tabs on you and Dean like she said she has?”

“Hoodoo?” he suggested, “Friends in higher places?”

“And either of those ways couldn’t just get her what she’s asking for? I don’t -” The vibration of the phone Castiel gave you stopped you. Text.

_Could not find burgers nearby. Dean is twenty minutes away. He said you’ll get food on the way to the bunker. Can I come up now?_

“Cas?”

“Yeah, who else,” you said, “Here. Text him back.”

“Why can’t you - oh.” He flipped it in his hands. “Too new for you? I thought we already had flip phones in 2010.”

You rolled your eyes. “Funny. No. I just don’t know how to talk to him.”

“To _Cas_?”

“He’s weird.”

“He’s _Cas._ ”

“No, he’s not,” you said, “He asks for permission to do stuff. He’s polite, and he’s considerate, and he’s caring, and it’s weird as fuck and I don’t like it, okay?”

\--

You counted the minutes.

You knew it was only a matter of time before Dean found out about what happened with the British Lady of Letters or whatever the fuck she was called. You knew that as soon as the niceties were out of the way, as soon as Sam and Mary got their introduction, as soon as it was just the two of you in the bunker war room, with Mary in her new room and Sam in there with her, Dean would ask and actually get a straight answer this time.

He’d get a straight answer and, at best, he’d kick you out. Tell you to go back where you came from.

So when he asked, when he sat on the table in front of you and asked what happened, and why you’d talked Sam into dodging that question, you flinched. “You didn’t see him.”

“Him?”

“Sam,” you breathed, your head lowered, “You didn’t see what she’d done to him.”

“Kid,” he said, “Just tell it like it is. I need to know.”

“I -” _Deep breath._ “I had a clean shot, through a window. I broke the window, and I took it.”

He nodded. “Anyone else there?”

“No.”

“Cameras?”

“A couple,” you said, “But I don’t think they were connected to the internet, and I went back for the hard drives.”

He shifted in his seat. “And the body?”

“Salted and burned.”

The corners of his lips twitched up and he looked down at his hands. “And you?”

“Me?”

Gently, his finger found your cheek, and pushed it towards him. _Look at me._ “Are you okay?”

“I’m - uh -” _What?_ “She didn’t get to me before I shot her. And there was no one else there. I told you.”

If Dean complained about Sam’s bitchface all the time, it’s only because he’d never seen his in the mirror. “I know that, you dumbass,” he said, “I don’t mean _physically._ I mean, you know. Must’ve been hard is what I’m saying.”

It _really_ wasn’t. Shooting her was probably the easiest decision you’d taken so far. Even easier than your first meal. Definitely easier than that. “You didn’t _see him._ ”

“Did you get dumber when you were dead? I _know._ It’s why I’m _asking._ ”

You frowned. “Wait.”

“What?”

“This isn’t a lecture?”

“What are we, twelve? Besides, what did you do anyway? You went in there and you saved Sam.”

“But I killed her.”

“So?”

“So she’s human.”

“And?”

“And you have a moral stick up your ass? I don’t know!”

He rolled his eyes. “Did you enjoy it?”

“No, surprisingly, murder still doesn’t turn me on.”

“Well then, there you have it.” He hopped off the table. “Look, things will probably be different around here than what you’re used to,” he said, “Or what you remember, but one thing will never change. You hear me? _Never.”_

You straightened in your seat. “And that is?”

“If you ever, and I mean _ever_ ,” he started, “Eat _my_ last piece of pie again, I will _stab you in your sleep._ You hear me?”

\---

The more Mary talked about John Winchester, the more you wanted to stab _yourself._

After Sam gave her his journal, she kept going on and on about how great he was, how good of a hunter he turned out to be, despite raising the three of you in the life. Every time she did, the room got a little quieter, and the three of you would exchange quiet glances, wondering who would be the first to break the news to the ray of fucking sunshine that was your actual mother.

She was still getting used to everything, to everyone, and you got that but at the same time, you only remembered John as Sergeant Winchester. The one who taught you how to use a shotgun as soon as you were tall enough to hold it. The one who insisted you become whatever he wanted you to be, so much that twenty-something years of your life had passed and you didn’t actually know what you’d wanted to be, what you could’ve been.

Even today, you didn’t really know where you _fit._ You were a hunter, sure, and you were apparently a legacy, deserving of the place you were staying, okay, but beyond that, there wasn’t really anything. And John Winchester was a huge fucking factor in making that happen. You knew it, Dean knew it, Sam knew it, and none of you spoke a word.

Because how do you tell the person you’d idolized your entire life that the person _she_ idolized was a fucking asshole?

So you let it go. You let it fade into the background, in between Dean making sure you, for whatever reason, had stuff in your room, and learning that apparently everything is on the fucking internet now, including but not limited to hooking up with random strangers. You let it go and you let yourself breathe a little, live a little.

Go to a bar, where apparently the bartender’s name is Donnie and, _no_ , Dean had reminded you before you took off, _you can’t take a joint from him either._

You rolled the sleeves of your (read: your brother’s shrunken) flannel and angled your pool stick _just_ right. The college boys that had bet against you groaned, and it was music to your ears. More money = more clothes. More clothes = less having to wear Sam and Dean’s monster-worn shirts. Less that = more feminine clothes. And that would just go back to make you more money hustling pool. It’s a simple cycle, really.

“Do you know happen to know Dean?”

You took the beer Donnie’d prepped for your victory. “He’s my brother.”

“No shit,” he said, “Was your dad a con artist or something?”

That earned him a snicker. “ _Or something._ ” You leaned back on the bar. “Seriously, though, I didn’t even have to put up an act. I just had to confirm that I was, indeed, a female of the human species.”

“Yeah, you know how college kids are all about the humans these days.”

“Such a fad. I’m sure they’ll grow out of it,” you said, “So I noticed the Help Wanted sign outside.”

“Yeah? You looking for something?”

“I’m _considering_ ,” you said, “My day job isn’t super stable.”

“Aha.”

“And sometimes I’m gone for days at a time.”

“You’re a shitty interviewee, you know that, right?”

“I’m only _considering_.”

Donnie wiped the counter. “If you’re serious about your day job, then maybe this isn’t the best fit,” he said, “I’m looking for someone to fill in a full-time shift.”

“I have an offer for you,” someone beside you, a man, said, after Donnie left to tend to other people, “And I think it would go quite well with your day job arrangement.”

You raised your eyebrows at him. “And you are?”

“Name’s Mick,” he said, “Mick Davies. We have a mutual friend - Toni?”

“Sorry, I think you have me mistaken for someone else.”

“Didn’t even ask her name before you shot her dead, did you?”

 


	3. Chapter Three

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Mick angled the glass in his hand with his ring finger, adjusting his stance. You followed his eyes around the bar - _one, two, three - five_ people turned around to give him a quick nod and you the confirmation you needed that you couldn’t slide your gun out fast enough without risking getting shot yourself. You gritted your teeth. “So I take it you’re British Men of Letters.”

“And _you’re_ a Winchester.” He set his glass down. “That makes you the middle sister. You look _fantastic_ for a dead person.”

“And you sure are chatty for someone who’s about to kill me.”

He shook his head. “Oh no,” he said, “You misunderstood my intentions completely. Toni - what can I say? - She strayed off.” Pause. “She wasn’t supposed to did what she did.”

“You mean kidnap and torture my brother?” you asked, “So, what, am I supposed to be good with you because she wasn’t _told to?_ ”

“Well, I’m letting the fact that you murdered one of us slide. Call it even, why don’t you? She hurt him, and you killed her.”

“I don’t know,” you said, “It _was_ kind of fast, and practically painless for her. If anything, I did her a favor.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Read the room, Winchester.”

“Fine. We’re even,” you said, “Now what? You brought your little gang in here to tell me that?”

“No,” he said, “Like I said, I have a job offer for you.”

“Yeah. No, thank you.”

“Hear me out first, will you?” he said, “I could’ve done this a million different ways. Yet I chose to come in here -” He gestured towards the open door, “- in a public place, with only a handful of people. I’m not even armed.”

You slid out of your seat and he did the same, just as fast, keeping the distance between you. “Yeah, just like I thought,” you said, “You’re just another glorified nerd. This - all of this - is for your benefit, not mine.”

He shrugged. “Maybe,” he said, “But, see, _they want you_. Toni was their commander, so what you did kind of struck a nerve. The only thing keeping them from you is _me_.”

“What do you want, _Mick_?”

“We’re trying to establish some kind of order in the... _industry_ here, in America.”

“Who died and made _you_ Queen?”

“Funny,” he said, “Sarcasm as a defense mechanism. How very Winchester of you.”

 _And how would_ you _know, asshole?_ “Just get on with it.”

“We have the expertise,” he said, “And the resources. I don’t know what Toni told Sam about how we operate, but I’m sure you’ve noticed a pattern.”

You crossed your arms over your chest. “You’re legit,” you noted, “With some pretty powerful friends, too - diplomatic immunity and everything.”

“Exactly,” he said, “We could make this a lot easier for you. For your brothers. For everyone.”

“And the catch?”

“There is no catch,” he said, “We tell you what to hunt and you hunt it. You get anything you need, and you get paid a handsome fee on top. We can agree to the exact terms - territories, what kinds of creatures you want to handle, which hunters you want to be paired with - this is all doable. We can give you a legit identity, too. Healthcare is expensive in America, isn’t it? We can make you very comfortable.”

“So you need people on the ground?” you asked, “That’s all?”

“Exactly.”

“And why me?” you asked, “You could’ve found anyone else. Hell, if you know I shot _her_ even though I didn’t leave any cameras or a body behind, you probably know what Sam told her.”

“Are you aware of how much warding we had on that place?” he asked, “And yet, you waltzed in. By the time I got there, you were done, and none of the warding was even a little powered down. That takes skill - knowledge, that not most hunters around here have.”

_So what I felt there - that was warding? If it was designed to trap me, how did I even feel it?_

“I’ll give you some time to think about it,” he said, slipping out a business card, “Feel free to extend the offer to your brothers. We could use them.”

“Listen, you make a good case,” you admitted, “But my answer is still no. I’m not getting dragged into the way you work things. That’s not how we do it around here.”

He frowned. “The way we work things?”

“Oh you know,” you said, “Kidnap. Torture. Sending your attack dog to kill us because we wanted Sam back. That sort of thing.”

“Strange,” he said, “I thought that would be a selling point for you.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means we _know you_ ,” he said, “We’ve watched you, all three of you, and we know what you did. Tell me, did the torture matter when you held demons inside your basement for months in a row, even when the humans they were possessing begged you to stop?” He took a bold stop towards you. “Did the kidnapping matter when you took them away from their families when you could’ve so easily exorcised them? Or did their blood you _drank_ make it all better?”

You swallowed hard, forcing your chin up, trying not to translate the ice in your core to your features. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He lifted his glass off the counter and downed his whiskey. “I think I know _exactly_ what I’m talking about, Miss Winchester, so don’t try to act like you’re too _good_ for this. For us.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter. My answer is still no.”

“Take your time to think about it.”

“I’m not going to change my mind, _Mr. Davies,_ so save it.”

He raised a hand up, curling his fingers for the others - _let’s go._ “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist,” he said, “You _really_ don’t want to turn this down.”

“Or, what?” you challenged, “You’ll kill me?”

“No, that would be practically painless for you, I’d almost be doing you a _favor_.” He slid on his jacket. “I was thinking something along the lines of a headline that could _really_ go viral. Viral enough for a certain _angel_ to notice you’re among the living. Or should I say archangel?”

Your muscles locked in place.

“Now, we don’t want that, do we?”

\--

“I can help, you know.”

You slid out from underneath the pastel car to find your - apparently very amused - older brother waving a wrench around. “I think I got it, thanks.”

He hopped on the hood of the car across from you. “You know we need to talk.”

You slid back under. “ _Why_?”

“You only came back a couple of weeks ago,” he noted, “Yet you’ve been back on the job since day one. We never really got to...I dunno…”

“Catch up?” you asked, “I was dead, you weren’t. You told me what you’ve been up to so far. I think we’re good.”

“No, I meant, like, I dunno, lay the ground rules, I guess?”

You stopped. “Ground rules.”

 _Sigh. “_ Yeah? Before you - before you were gone, we didn’t really know much about you for almost a year. And now you’re back, and you haven’t even tried to do anything beyond staying in the bunker and going to the bar that one time, which is fine - I get it, I do,” he said, “You need something, I dunno, familiar, maybe -”

“ _Dean._ ”

“No, just - let me say it,” he said, “You didn’t tag along on our family hunting trip.” You almost laughed. If you hadn’t known how damn excited he was about the concept because of Mary. “And now you want your own car, so you can hunt on your own?”

“I want my own car because I need to be able to move around without having to ask you for the Impala every single time. We’re kind of in the middle of nowhere.”

“So you _don’t_ want to hunt?”

“That’s beside the point.”

“ _Kid._ ”

“ _Dean.”_

“I can’t lose you again.”

That earned him the most frustrated groan you could muster. “God, don’t even start,” you said, rolling back out to face him. “I’m not Sam. I’m not going to stick around you all the time. That’s how it’s _always_ been, okay? And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“There is if you’re running from us.”

“Where is that even _coming from?_ ” you asked, “Dean, I can’t keep having the same conversation over and over again - with you, with Sam, with _Mom_.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “ _This is who I am._ Can’t you just _have me_? Can’t we just be a normal family for once?”

“We’re not a normal family.”

“I _know_ ,” you said, “We’re a bunch of thirty-somethings who, for some reason, _have_ to live and work and do everything together. Do you realize how weird you sound right now?”

That stung him harder than you intended, and you watched him physically recoil, but you couldn’t take it back. You didn’t know how to. “Tell me,” he said, quieter than before, “If I hadn’t found you, when you came back -” He stared at the wrench in his hands. “- Would you have found me? Us?”

You fought the lump in your throat. “That’s not fair and you know it.”

“How is it _not fair,_ huh? It’s a simple question. Yes or no.”

You felt the tears roll down your cheek even though you’d tried your damndest to keep them in. “It’s different,” you breathed, “You only want me around because you feel guilty - you and Sam, both,” you said, “What happened with us, what happened _to_ us was fucked up, and it wasn’t your fault, but you don’t know that, you keep blaming yourself for fucking _everything._ ”

“Y/N-”

“No, let me finish.” You rubbed your eyes with your palm. “It’s not fair because I love you, both of you, you’re all I have in this world,” you said, “But you don’t want _me_ , you just want to feel like it never happened. Maybe in your head it was different. Maybe after I died you forgot how angry you were at me, how you never really forgave me for what I did, but I didn’t, Dean. I still _remember_.”

You didn’t want to look at his face. You knew you couldn’t. But you saw his shadow approach you, on the ground. Slow, cautious even. “I was wrong,” he said, “I know - I know it was bad. But I was _wrong_ , okay? About you. About Sam. About everything. I know that now.”

You shook your head. “It’s fine, Dean,” you said, “I’ve had a lot of time to wrap my head around what I did, and even I still seem to keep forgetting how awful it was for everyone involved.”

“We’ve all had our fair share of bad, Y/N. We’ve all crossed so many lines, but no matter what happens, we still got each other.”

“I know you mean well, Dean, but it’s okay.” You sniffed. “It’s fine. I know where I stand. And I’ll always be there for you if you ever need me. I’ll still live at the bunker, mainly. The same way we lived at Bobby’s. Whenever I can. I don’t - I don’t blame you for anything, if that’s what you’re afraid of. Sam, either.”

He didn’t say anything at first, just crossed the distance between you and took you, crossed arms and all, into his arms. If he just hadn’t done that, if he hadn’t touched you, if he’d just stormed off like you’d expected him to, maybe, _maybe_ you wouldn’t have cried. You wouldn’t have soaked his shirt. You wouldn’t have let your arms drop by your side only to feel him shush you, hands caressing your hair, fingers rubbing your shoulder. You wouldn’t have felt the hitch in his breath under your cheek.

You wouldn’t have broken down.

“I’m sorry, kiddo,” he said, “I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know how many times I gotta say it for you to believe it, but I mean it. Everything I did - anything I did to make you feel like you didn’t belong with us, like we don’t _want you_ \- I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, I -”

“No. No, it’s not,” he breathed, “It’s not. But it’s going to be, okay? I promise you. Just - just give us a chance. Give us a chance to prove it.”

You wrapped your arms around him, and you felt his grip tighten.

“Sam found a hunt,” he said, “Mom’s taking a few days off. Studying, she said, so it’s just gonna be me and him. Come along. Please,” he said, “You can even bring that damn car if you want to.”

\--

You did not miss the hunts where they “had to” dress as priests.

What you did miss, however, was the race. Sometimes, when it looked like an easy enough hunt, and the three of you were on it, you’d split your research and investigation and whoever found the monster first got to pick the food, or the music, or sometimes the motel bed (if it was particularly difficult). They sort of got a head start with the priests thing, because the victim died in a church, so you were making up for it by going through her whereabouts, trying to find out if she was possessed and if she was, where did it happen?

Demons nearly never acted on their own, so if one had decided to make such an old school scene (flogging, blood, speaking in tongues), which you gathered, from Sam, wasn’t as common nowadays with a more “corporate” hell, there’s probably something behind it. And maybe a place would lead you to a reason, who knows?

The last place she’d been, aside from her home, and her office, which were clean (with a side of wicca, which you didn’t think had a lot to do with the case, more on a hunch than anything, really) was the house of a family that sounded like a good candidate for something so religiously-themed. Their daughter had died years ago, a preventable death that they deemed as “God’s will”. Yeah. Right. Okay.

You thought they wouldn’t respond well to an FBI agent questioning them out of the blue, so instead of the pantsuit you were supposed to buy, you grabbed yourself a dress, some matte tights, and a cardigan. Some earrings, too, because why not. Dean would probably laugh, but you liked it, it fit the role of the new social worker assigned their case, and it was a million times more comfortable than jeans so, _sue you._

As agreed, you texted them where you were, and they replied with their location - the office, still - before you walked up to the Petersons. You knocked on the door, and a teenager, a boy, answered. “Can I help you?”

“Yes!” you said, “My name’s Y/N. I’m your new social worker.”

“Oh.” He looked over his shoulder. “Wait.”

A moment later, a lady appeared. “Mrs. Peterson?” you asked with the sunniest voice you could think of, “Hi. I’m Y/N. Your -”

“Yeah, Elijah told me. What happened to Olivia?”

“I’m afraid Ms. Sanchez has passed away,” you said, “It was all over the news, didn’t you hear?”

“Did you read our file?” You didn’t have a chance to say anything before she narrowed her eyes at you. “If you’d read our file, you’d know that we don’t have TVs, or computers, or anything like that in our household.”

“Of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful,” you said, “It’s just that, God bless her, she was such a kind soul. Now, I’m not very religious myself, but I try to be open minded. Father Valdecantos said it was the work of the devil himself, how she died.”

Except, you were familiar with the devil’s work, and, what was Dean’s word? _That just wasn’t his MO._

Something in her eyes darkened, and you knew, you _knew_ right then that you’d won that motel bed. “Is that so?” You nodded. “Well, is there anything else you’d like to do today, Miss -?”

“Just Y/N is fine.”

“Right. Is there anything else?”

“I was just hoping you’d have time to fill a few forms,” you said, “Just regular stuff. She took her work home, you know, and a lot of that has been seized by the police for evidence, for their investigation. _Christo_.”

“I’m sorry?”

Nope. Not possessed. Well, something was still fishy, and it was worth looking into. “Nothing. The forms?”

“Can you perhaps drop by sometime tomorrow?” she asked, “I have something I need to take care of right now.”

“Sure, no problem,” you said, “Do you mind if I took a look around your place, though? Just for my report. It’s my first day, sorry.”

She looked like she was about to bust a nerve, but called for her son and let you have your tour anyway.

\--

It was quiet. And dark.

You weren’t sure where you were, only that it was peaceful. It looked something like the woods you’d woken up in, except instead of the soft lights, it was just the stars. Just you, the grass, the cold breeze, and the stars above, in the black-and-white dress you’d had on earlier. You didn’t remember being this peaceful in such a long time, maybe since that fourth of July Dean took you and Sam to set off some fireworks.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“ _Mhm…_ ”

“Wish I could see it,” the same voice said again, “Wish I could feel it myself.”

You propped yourself up to your elbows, searching around you for the source of the voice. “Why can’t you? It’s right here.”

“Maybe to you it is,” he said, “But me? I can’t. I can’t see anything, I can’t feel anything. Only you can,” he explained, “And when you do, I do.”

The voice sounded familiar, too familiar. But you couldn’t place it. You couldn’t put a face to the voice. “Who are you?” you asked, “ _Where_ are you?”

“You know, Y/N. Deep inside, you know. You’re the reason I’m like this. You _did this to me._ ”

“I - I don’t know what you’re talking about.” There was nothing around you. No one. “Hello?”

“ _Help me_.”

This time, the voice changed. It was a girl, and she wasn’t calm, like the man, she was _screaming._ Tearing the silence apart. Even the sky started turning red at the sound of her voice. You jumped up, alert. “Who’s there?!”

“HELP ME.”

The next thing you felt was a ringing in your ears. It interlaced with her cries, and at that moment, at that exact moment, it downed on you - this wasn’t real. This couldn’t be. You had to wake up - you knew you had to. Wake up, wake up, _wake -_

“ _SAVE ME.”_

You bolted awake. You were still on the motel bed you’d remembered falling asleep on, Sam on the opposite bed, while Dean slept on the couch. For a second, just one glorious second, everything was fine again. You were just about to fall back to bed when everything just went into overdrive all at once.

The ringing was back, in full glory this time, and you must’ve echoed it, you must’ve said something because in a second, both of your brothers were awake, and the lights were on. You tried to explain, to say that it was just a dream, that you must be having some sort of a dream inside a dream or something because there was no way, just _no way -_

“ _Save me, oh God.”_

_Wake up, wake up, wake up -_

“ _You can hear me, I know you can,”_ the girl said, “ _I can feel it. For the first time, I can feel it. You can hear me.”_

Hands were on you, around you, trying to communicate with you, but the only voice that made it through to your brain was the girl. Just the girl. You didn’t know what to say, or how to say it.

“ _You’re like me,”_ she said, “ _You have the same darkness within you. I can feel it. I could feel it when you came. You’re not like other people. There’s something wrong with you. Like me.”_

You saw Sam, kneeling in front of you, panic radiating off his figure, while Dean spoke on the phone with someone. But you couldn’t hear them. You couldn’t hear any of them.

“ _Together, we can cleanse ourselves of evil,”_ she said, “ _I’ll show you._ ”

She let you hear again, and the first thing you heard was the sound of a whip connecting with your back.

 


	4. Chapter Four

_Pain will free you._

The concept of punishment as a way to stop the evil in someone, to clean it, sounds so simple, and yet - and _yet_ \- it doesn’t work, does it? Not really. Not if you think about it hard enough. Maybe it works for others. Others who weren’t touched by said evil, who only saw it, condemned it, and thought it would be just to retaliate.

Maybe it even worked for _you_ , at some point, on some level. The idea itself is very tempting; something, anything, can make everything that haunts you _better_. If you were hurt just enough, just right, it would even the playing field. Instead of trying to salvage the damage you’d done, you could just experience an equal, or greater, amount of pain.

That would make it just. Fair. And that’s objectively better, right?

That makes it okay. That means you’ve done your dues, and can now start over, start fresh. But, who can put a price on the damage? Who can _quantify_ pain, in order to compare it? Was one whip enough? Two? A hundred?

One year in hell? Two? A hundred?

Did your punisher _know?_ Did they _care?_ Some say that while human punishment was not universally just, divine punishment was. But _was it_ , really? In this world, where everyone was out for themselves? In this world, where you hurt, and you _hurt, and you hurt._ At one point, the distinction between the subject and object of said hurt blurred, and there was still no - no clarity. No revelation. No cleansing.

None that you could feel, anyway.

You hissed, your back burning, a sharp contrast to the cold that met what you assumed was an open wound. You didn’t have time to think, to process what she said, just - _Stop._

When the realization hit them, when they _saw_ , they froze. Your brothers, who’ve seen the world almost come to an end a handful of times, were locked for a split second. It was Dean that sprung to action first; hung up the phone and grabbed a clean shirt from his duffel. You wanted to explain, to tell them what was going on, but the connection from your head to your vocal cords seemed to disappear.

“ _I can’t stop_ ,” _she_ said, “ _Not until I’m clean._ We’re _clean.”_

The bed squeaked, relieved of your weight, and Sam moved with you, around you, his hands hung up beside him like he’s just not sure what to do. You weren’t, either. But she could hear you. At the very least, you had _that. Stop. Just stop. Please._

She didn’t reply; her whip did.

Your jaw ached from the sheer pressure, and you almost stumbled. You weren’t sure where you were going exactly, but it was against every instinct in your body to stay still when you could move, like you could get away. If only.

“Sam. Hex bags. _Now_.” Dean rolled the shirt in his hand, EMF in the other, and moved towards you. EMF didn’t blink, not anymore than expected anyway, so he ditched it, going for the flask of holy water he kept around. “Sorry, kid.”

_Whip._

But you weren’t possessed. This wasn’t the voice of someone else inside you. You, of all people, knew that you couldn’t be. Not this time. And it didn’t sizzle, didn’t burn through your skin as it would’ve if you were possessed.

It still stung, though. Not that he noticed.

 _Whip._ Sam’s hands started shaking as he sifted through the entire room, only to find nothing. _Whip._ Dean still had the shirt in his hand. Every time he tried to come closer, to press it to your wounds, she just - _WHIP._ You gave up on trying to communicate the conversation you were having to your brothers, not through your voice anyway. _Whip. Whip. Whip._

Every drop of patience you had fell out of you on your knees’ way to the rough motel carpet. _Don’t you get it? This won’t make anything any better! You can’t just -_ WHIP - _you think you need this?_

“ _I know I do. I’m the Devil.”_

_No. You’re not._

“ _You don’t know_ me _. You don’t know what I’ve done. What I’ve caused.”_

 _You’re right. I don’t know you. But I know_ him.

She didn’t stop, only hesitated. _Fuck, fuck, fu - “I can’t stop.”_

_You can. You’re in control. You can stop._

“ _I won’t. This is the only way.”_

_You think this will fix whatever it is you did? You think this is repenting?_

“ _I killed Olivia. She was nice, she cared. She didn’t do anything to deserve what happened to her. Mother told me, she told me what I did to her, what happened. She suffered, like I do, like I deserve to, but it was in vain. It was pointless, and cruel, and evil.”_

 _You’re hurting, too. Like me. Right now, aren’t you?_ The imbalance in the pattern she’d established was the answer you needed. _Stop. Stop hurting yourself. Stop hurting_ me.

“ _We have to cleanse ourselves.”_

 _And you think this will_ work? _It doesn’t. It didn’t. It doesn’t make it any better. It doesn’t make what you did_ okay _, do you hear me? It doesn’t erase it. It still happened. You still killed her, and if you don’t stop you’ll kill me, too. You’ll kill us both. And then what, huh? You think you’ll just turn into a good person? You think Olivia would forgive you then?_

“ _God will.”_

You pressed your palms to the ground, all fight whipped out of you, along with every ounce of patience. _God doesn’t care. God doesn’t_ matter. _Even if He did forgive you. Even if He wants you to do this. Even if he wants us to suffer. What he thinks is irrelevant._

“ _You’re wrong.”_

The next one sent you heaving, getting closer to the ground by the second. _Stop._ You clenched your fist around the rough fibers. The blood loss was starting to get to you, just the feeling of it rolling down your back, and onto your arms, twisted your gut. _I said_ stop.

“ _Not yet.”_

You shut your eyes. No. No, this wasn’t happening. You weren’t about to take any more of this, not one more. This was _his_ game. This was his narrative, the way he got to you at first. When you believed him. But this wasn’t him, and you weren’t _taking it anymore._

Heat escaped through your limbs, and for the first time since she started, your screams made it outside the confines of your head. You could feel your arms getting weaker, your balance being knocked out of you, but you didn’t _give a shit. This has to end. Now._

“I wasn’t asking.”

\--

The days that followed were a blur.

After she stopped, you passed out. When you came to, the spot where your hands were was almost, for some reason, burned completely off. Your dress, as expected, was torn, and bloodied beyond hope. Dean couldn’t get Castiel to you to heal you, and he wouldn’t tell you why, so he had to go old school on your wounds, and _no, I’m not okay, Sam, just please take care of this because I can’t, I don’t even know why she didn’t come back for seconds, so, please._

As it turned out, from what you told them, it was the Peterson kid everyone had thought died. She was psychic, and her mother locked her away because of it, made her think she was literally Satan because of it, and you couldn’t hold it against her, no matter how much you wanted to. No matter how much your back still ached.

So when Sam and Dean called you, told you what they found out, that they’d also called the police, and that was it was over now, you didn’t stay away. You couldn’t. You drove over there, and you stood with them. Saw her for the first time, how small and broken she seemed, wrapped in a blanket, after talking to her - actual - new social worker, Beth.

“I’m sorry.”

Your brothers took a step back, eyes jumping between the two of you. You shook your head. “It’s fine. It’s over. Are you okay?”

Magda nodded, but her finger was fiddling with traces of what looked like a burn on the her palm. “I’m going to California.”

“She has an aunt there,” Sam said. “Like I said - Magda - it will get better. I promise.”

She shrugged.

“Is someone coming to get you?”

“I’ll take the bus.” _Pause_. “I’m old enough. And I have some money.”

“Well, you can always call if you need anything, you know that, right?” Dean offered. “If you have any questions, if anything happens, you just give us a call, we’ll be there.”

Sam’s arm dropped on your shoulder. “What Dean said,” he confirmed, “But we have to get going now -”

“How long have you been locked up?”

“Three years.”

“You sure you know where the bus stop is?” Your tone was soft, curious. She was just a _kid_ , dammit. She nodded. “You want me to tag along?”

Sam frowned. “What?”

But you kept looking at her. She licked her lips. “I dunno.”

“I’m just saying,” you said, “I heard you. I know how hard it is. I can come with, make sure you make it to your aunt okay.”

“Y/N…”

Your smile at Dean was polite - _I’m fine._ “So?”

“I guess, if you want to,” she said, “I still have to stop and get a few things for the road, though.”

“ _Y/N._ ”

You sighed and excused yourself to turn to Dean. “What?”

“What are you doing?”

“Kid’s been through enough,” you said, “You want her to travel cross country by herself one day after her whole family dies and she gets out of the dungeon she was kept in?”

“Basement.”

“Does it fucking matter?”

He sighed. “She’s got Beth looking after her. She’ll make sure she makes it okay. We should go home,” he said, “Get you healed, _properly._ Mom’s been worried, you know?”

You blinked. “You told _Mom?_ ”

His shrug was unapologetic. “We were just texting. She asked about you. You’re gonna have to actually talk more than three sentences to her at one point, you know that, right?”

 _That_ was a whole other monster you weren’t even near ready to poke. “I’m fine. I’m healing okay. If the kid wants me, I’m going. Can’t hurt to have someone with weapon training on your side, you know? Then I’ll go back home”

The corner of his lips twitched up. “Just...okay. Okay. Go with her, then find us.”

“That’s what I said.”

\--

“Did you hear me? I said hands in the air, _now._ ”

Magda’s wide eyes were fixed on the silver gun, and, like knee-jerk, she sent it flying across the bathroom and it went off, but no one seemed to get hurt. You took the chance to cross the distance between you and the man standing between the both of you, the man who’d been following you for the better half of this trip, pressing your own gun to the back of his head. “Easy.”

You ignored him. “Magda.” You pointed towards the door with your thumb. “Go. Now. And _you_ ,” you told the man in all-black, “One move, and I’ll shoot.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it.”

She was still glued to her post. “ _Magda.”_

“He’ll kill you.”

“ _GO._ I’m not _asking._ ”

She rubbed the inside of her hand with her thumb, and swallowed, picking her backpack off the floor and scurrying out. She’ll be fine. She’ll get on that bus, given there was already one person on her tail ready to give her, statistically, she’ll be okay. You had to believe that, at least. You eased the strain on your arm, pulling his shoulder so he’d turn around. “You wanna explain?”

“Hm. No. Do _you?_ ”

You flicked your wrist. “I’m the one who asks the questions. Who are you, and why did you have a gun pointed at a teenager just now?”

He took a deep breath, his eyes level, almost bored. “They told me you’re unusual.”

You hesitated, and he took that fraction of a second to disarm you, twist your arm around your back, pushing your bandages, and shove you against the bathroom wall so hard your nose made a sound.

“Nice to finally meet you, Winchester. Sorry it couldn’t have been under less dramatic circumstances. I don’t get a lot of new colleagues, you know.”

 _Collea -_ “Did _Mick_ send you?”

“No,” he answered, “But he does know I’m here.” He lifted your jacket and stuck his hand in your holster, getting your second gun out. “It’s my job, you know.”

“What, blackmailing people into joining you?”

“Cleaning up after inefficient hunters,” he clarified, “I gave you some time. Thought you just wanted to get away from the police, make it sound like an accident,” he said, “But you had plenty of chances, and you took none of them. What can I say? I got bored.”

Once he made sure you were completely unarmed, he let go, and as soon as he did, you turned around and punched him square in the jaw. “You stay away from that girl or so _help me._ ”

He rubbed the edge of his mouth with the back of his thumb, the cross on his hand flexing with the movement. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. No loose ends. No monsters. You’ll know that soon enough.”

“Who said I’m saying yes to Mick? To you?”

“Well, you didn’t say _no_ , did you?” He crossed his hands, correcting his stance, looking evenly at you. “So, what’s your answer? Right here and now. Either you take it, or you leave it.”

“ _No_.”

“Ah, that’s too bad.” He tucked your guns in his holsters. “I’m under strict orders not to kill you, for now, but we’ll see what happens to that when they get word of this.”

“Is that a _threat?”_

“No, just speculation,” he said, “I actually rather like you, believe it or not.”

\--

You lied.

Home wasn’t the bunker, despite the new mattress and the water pressure. It wasn’t that you didn’t intend to go back to the bunker, but you missed _home_ , now more than ever. Home happened to be in Sioux Falls, with a duffel on your shoulder and a cold beer in your hand, on the hood of Bobby’s car, between the sea of other cars that were, apparently, also left to rust after his house burned down.

It was almost post-apocalyptic, with the overgrown parts and the silence, but somehow you still expected the old man to stroll out and give you shit about putting your feet up on the metal. “ _Have some respect, will ya?”_ he’d say, but he wouldn’t be really mad. And if you do it often enough, he’d probably let it slide, too.

What would he say now?

What would he say if he knew everything that happened, everything that continued to happen? He’d back you up on not joining the British. He’d tell you they could go screw themselves, that you couldn’t let them affect you. That sounded like him, didn’t it?

Or maybe he’d tell you to play it safe. See what they want, and then do what you knew was right anyway. Because he’d know - he’d know you couldn’t see Lucifer again. Even if he couldn’t take you as a vessel again without your permission, it was just _so much bigger than that._ It ran deeper, you felt, and you couldn’t shake it, no matter how much you wanted to.

But you already said no.

Your phone vibrated in your pocket and, for the tenth time in a row, you ignored it. You knew it wasn’t urgent, that it couldn’t be, given they only called once every hour or so, and you just - you couldn’t. Not right now. This was _your_ time. Not the hunt’s. Not Dean’s, not Sam’s, not your mother’s.

But then it vibrated again right away, and you knew you had to pick up. But it wasn’t a call this time, it was a text.

_Hey sweetie, I need to talk to you, can you please call me back? Mom._

Then another one.

_Everything is OK just need to talk when you can._

And another. But this time, from Sam.

_Take as much time as you need. Please keep your phone on, though just for peace of mind. I’ll make Dean stop. If you need anything, let me know._

You smiled at your phone and locked it, tucking it back in your pocket. You were just about to dig out the sandwich you’d bought earlier when someone approached you with a flashlight. “Hey! This is private property,” she said, “If you don’t leave right now, I _will_ arrest you for trespassing.”

 _What_ \- you knew that voice. “Holy shit. Jody Mills.”

Light searched your features, and she froze. “ _Y/N?”_


	5. Chapter Five

The air around Jody stilled.

You knew her. You knew she knew you, at least as Bobby’s niece, the one who picked him up and did his grocery shopping, the one who got busted for breaking and entering one too many times, according to her. Despite the juvenile record, and how much she resented Bobby for trying to talk your way out of jail every few months, she was always kind to you. Always tried to get you into programs, into community service - once, she even hired you as a temp to help around the station.

But none of that warranted her reaction.

It looked like she was seeing a ghost; she lowered her flashlight, and her breathing was audible from where you were sitting. She covered her eyes with her hands and murmured, “No.”

You put your beer down. “You okay over there?”

She ignored you and slid out her phone. _Weird_. “Hey. Yeah, it’s me. I know, it’s been a while. Listen - I - I need to ask you something.” She shook her head. “I’m in Bobby’s yard right now, and there’s someone -” Pause. “Are you _kidding me?_ For real?” Her shoulders lost all tension. “Well, a little warning might’ve been nice, you know. Yeah, yeah. Talk to you later - Oh, _screw you,_ Dean _._ ”

_Dean?_

“Sorry.” She slid her phone back in. “Can’t be too careful these days.”

“Were you just talking to my _brother_?”

She shrugged. “Had to make sure it wasn’t something, err, you know.”

Now _that_ you had to stand up for. “You _know_? About…”

“Hard not to when the world’s coming to an end, you know.”

“Which time?”

She snickered. “I know, right?” She switched off her light and came to lean on the car next to you. “So welcome back, I guess.”

You reached into your bag and handed her the other beer you had. “Thanks. So you’ve been in touch with Sam and Dean? In case something comes up?”

“Yeah,” she said, “In case it’s something I can’t handle on my own. But we’re friends, too. Though I can’t remember the last time we hung out without someone almost dying.”

That earned her a laugh. “Yeah, that’s a Winchester thing, totally not your fault. Hunters have to hunt for the supernatural, we just have to exist, I think.”

She raised the bottle to her lips. “So is there something around here I should be worried about?”

“Nope.” You grimaced. “Not right now, I don’t think. I made sure no one was following me. I just -” You motioned to the area around you. “I just wanted to come home. At least for a little while.”

She looked down, but gave you a soft pat on the shoulder. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said, and it was the first time someone thought to mention it. You swallowed the lump in your throat. “I know he would’ve been happy to have you back.”

“Yeah, I’m not so sure about that,” you mumbled, chugging the rest of your alcohol, “But, thank you.”

“Aw, kid,” she said, “You have no idea - _no idea -_ how much he loved you. How much he missed you. When you died - it broke him. I don’t think he ever fully got back from that.”

You wrapped your shirt around you. “I don’t know what to say to that.”

“Well,” she said, “It is what it is. But. Yeah. I’m not very good with this. But just know that he loved you very, very much.”

“Thanks,” you breathed, “That’s actually - just, thank you.”

Her smile was sad, sympathetic, but you didn’t mind. It wasn’t pity. She wasn’t looking at you like you were some sort of a mystery she had to unlock, or a bomb that was about to go off at any given moment. She was just - _there._ Kind of like Sam, but without the emotional baggage that came with that. It was actually kind of nice. You didn’t remember the last time you just stood silently next to another person and it wasn’t eating at you in any way. It just _was._ And it was easy. Like breathing.

“So how long have you been topside?”

“A little less than a month.”

“And you’ve been staying with your brothers, no?”

“Yeah.”

“So that means you haven’t had a proper meal in this lifetime?”

Another laugh. “Define _proper._ ”

“Doesn’t come in paper,” she said, “And isn’t shaped as a _patty, or a nugget._ ”

“That is... _offensive_.”

“So it’s true.”

You turned around and snatched the foil out of your duffel. “I was about to have _this._ ”

She took it from you, unwrapped it, and made a face. “How did you even make it for so long?”

“I didn’t.”

“Smartass,” she said, “I’m about to head home, and we’re about to have a family dinner. You’re coming with.”

“I don’t want to impose -”

“You’re not. You’re really not,” she said, her voice a little more serious, “Come on. What have you got to lose? It’s a free meal, somewhere warm. We’ll take turns making the two teenagers at home uncomfortable. It’ll be awesome.”

“Sheriff Mills -”

“ _Jody._ ”

“- Are you sure?”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course I am,” she said, “Winchesters are always welcome. Also, I kind of promised your brother I’d send back some leftovers with you. And I know he’ll tell Sam about it, and it’ll be this whole _thing._ So. Zip your bag up, and let’s go.”

\--

Dean wasn’t getting any leftovers.

It was, according to Jody, “just a casserole.” But it was _such_ a good casserole. It was warm, and it was _nice_ , and it hugged you from the inside. It made you question all the food you’d ever had. Why are burgers so _dry?_ Why are salads so _cold?_ Casserole is neither. And it sat _so nicely_ on the rice - the potatoes, and the onions, and the _carrots - so soft and savory and yet a little sweet -_

“Do _all_ Winchesters look like they’re having a religious experience when they’re eating normal food?”

You took another mouthful, not even bothering to look at Claire. “This casserole _loves me._ I’d marry it if I could. You _have to teach me how to do that._ ”

Jody’s eyebrows perked up. “You cook?”

“Never really bothered to learn,” you said, “But if I can put together a spell, I can put together some food, right?” Food got stuck in your throat. “Oh. I - uh - meant that _metaphorically_ , see -”

The three of them snickered. “Don’t worry,” Alex said, “You’re not ruining anyone’s innocence. Jody and Claire hunt sometimes, even.”

“Oh.” You shifted in your seat. “Cool.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Say it,” she said, “I know you’re dying to.”

You glanced at Jody for help, but she didn’t seem to mind the way the conversation was turning. Almost like she expected it. “But you’re so _normal._ Is it, like, a new age thing?” you said, “Because I know Sam and Dean wouldn’t mind stepping in if needed.”

“Oh yeah,” Claire said, “Let’s all wait around until the big strong men come to save us damsels in distress.”

“ _Claire.”_

You stuffed your mouth one more time. “I’m not a man,” you noted, “I wouldn’t mind, either.”

She eyed you carefully, as if assessing you. “You hunt like your brothers?”

 _If you knew us, you’d know it wasn’t an option._ “Since I could remember.”

Her hair fell over her shoulder as she focused solely on her plate. “Hm.”

Jody poured you more wine. “So,” she said, “You have any plans here in Sioux Falls? Where are you staying?”

You fiddled with a pea with your fork. “I bought a sleeping bag,” you said, “I was going to set up camp at Bobby’s for a few days. Seems wrong to stay in a motel here, for some reason.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you sound like an insane person. It’s winter. You’ll freeze to death,” Alex said.

“I’ll be _fine_ -”

“Can she stay with us?” Claire asked, her face void of any expressions, “She can take my room. I can sleep on the couch. It’s _so big._ Can she?”

Jody narrowed her eyes at Claire. “I can see your ulterior motive from two towns over,” she said, “But, they’re right.” She turned to you. “You should stay here. At least for the night. You can take the couch,” she said, “It _is_ bigger than it looks.”

You wanted to say no. It was programmed in you to say no to offers like this, offers that seemed a little too good to be true, to be just _that -_ someone being kind, or being open to you, without wary, without caution. And you almost, _almost_ , wanted to check if they were actually demons, or something. But it felt even _better_ not to refuse, to just accept it for what it is.

“Then at least let me, I don’t know, do the dishes, or something.”

“Yeah, you can have that. _Please._ ” Claire.

“I beg you.” Alex.

“See?” Jody said, “You fit right in.”

\--

“Here.”

You dried your hands in the kitchen towel. Jody had a small, worn out envelope in her hand. There was no writing on it - no address, or even a name. “What’s that?”

She stepped inside the kitchen, arching her back to make sure you weren’t in hearing range of any curious teenagers. “Before you left,” she said, “That time right a few months before you, you know,” she said, “You left Bobby a note. He wrote you back, some time later. Just never knew where to send it.”

No small, square towel had ever felt this heavy. “He did?”

“Yeah,” she said, “I found it with his stuff - most of them are with your brothers now, but this was in one of the boxes they haven’t picked up yet. With his personal belongings, not the lore.” She flicked it in your direction. “I didn’t think it would be right to throw something like that away. I was meaning to give it to Sam, or Dean. But, I guess it finally found you.”

You took it between your fingers and flipped it over. “Thank you.”

She patted your back - _don’t worry about it -_ and left you to it. You _could’ve_ waited. You could’ve held on to that letter until you just couldn’t anymore. Until you felt like you deserved it. Like you were actually meeting him, not just reading his words. But you didn’t _want_ to wait. Maybe it was selfish, but this was the only thing of him that wasn’t a memory that you got, and after everything that’s been going on since the moment you were shoved back into your body, this was the closest thing to _home_ , to comfort, that you could find.

So you leaned your back on the sink, and cut the envelope open.

_Y/N,_

_I wasn’t going to write anything at first, I’ll admit. I was too angry, too frustrated; we’d just gotten you back, finally, and it was starting to feel normal again around here, until you just up and left. But Sam told me. He told me the reason why you felt you had to leave. I know now, but I still don’t get it. I really don’t._

_You say I’m like a father to you, so how come you don’t act like it? How come you leave whenever things get difficult? Whenever you’re in danger, or you’re in any sort of trouble, you just leave. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel? To know that you can’t count on me, on us - your family - to have your back when you need it the most?_

_Dean says you’re probably better off alone, away from us, from the center of everything that’s going on, but that’s a bunch of bullshit. We can protect you. We can help you. I would die before I let any of those sons of bitches lay a hand on you, or force you into hosting the devil, and you know it._

_You think you could ever disappoint me? I’ve watched you grow up. I’ve lived with you. I’ve hunted with you. I know who you are on the inside, kid. I know what you’re made of. You’ve made mistakes, but guess what? We all have. And even if it’s as bad as you imply it to be, all I want to do - all we want to do - is help you. I’m not trying to fix you, or make you into another person, I just want to help, when I can, however I can. It’s what I’m here for, you idjit. That’s my job._

_But you leave. You always leave, and I don’t know what to do when you do that. I’ve never felt more helpless in my entire life. I’m just sitting here, waiting, and you’re out there, all alone, scared no doubt, and on the run. I wish you’d come back, change your mind. But I know you’re as stubborn as your brothers. I know you’ll be on your own until you absolutely can’t anymore. And all I can do is wait. For what? I don’t know. Even if you die, it’s not like anyone would tell me. Any of us. You’d just be gone. You wouldn’t come back, and we’ll never know for sure._

_I wish you’re safe, wherever you are. I wish you’d find it in yourself to be happy, for once. And when all of this is over, I wish you’d come back home. I don’t think I’d bear it without you around. Not again._

_PS: Ellen would smack you if she’d heard you say that._

_Bobby._

\--

“Hey. You.”

You pulled the covers over your head. It was the middle of the night. Were you asleep? No. You couldn’t. But that was irrelevant. “Claire. It’s two in the morning.”

“I’m well aware, thank you,” she whispered, “I just need a word with you, and this is the only time no one is actually listening.”

You sighed, propping yourself up on your elbows. “Okay,” you said, “What is it?”

“You’re a hunter,” she said, sitting on the arm of the couch next to your feet. “And if you were trained like your brothers, you can train me. And I mean the _real_ stuff,” she said, “I already know the basics. I just need someone with more experience to, like, lay it out. Help me improve.”

You fell back on the couch. “Your mother already warned me you’d say something like that,” you said, “The answer is no. I’m not gonna do that to you. And I wish you’d drop it. Be _normal_ , okay? I’d kill for that.”

“It’s a little too late for normal for me.”

“ _Really?”_ you said, “You live with your mom and your sister in a suburban home,” you said, “I’m guessing you even go to _college._ ”

“I dropped out. To hunt. But - wait, you think - don’t you know who I am? I’m Claire _Novak_. Ring any bells?”

Novak. Novak, Novak, Novak. Why did that name sound so _familiar?_ Oh. Oh _wow._ “Any relation to Jimmy Novak?”

“He was my dad.”

“ _Jesus._ ” And Castiel, the close family friend, was still wearing him _to this day?_ “Sorry. But, still.”

“Still?”

“Jody said -”

“Jody doesn’t _get it_ ,” she said, “But you _do_ , don’t you? I can’t just _not hunt._ I know what’s out there. I can protect people. I can make things _better._ And I’m not interested in college right now. I just want to hunt, and I _will_. So you either help me, train me,” she said, “Or, y’know, live with the fact that if and when some creature guts me it will be because you never taught me how to kill it.”

“Do you always guilt-trip your guests into shit?”

She shrugged. “I know a chance when I see one.”

You straightened in your seat. “I’ve never trained anyone, though,” you said, “Why didn’t you ask Sam or Dean?”

“They know me,” she said, “And they know Jody better than me. So it’s weird. You’re fresh meat. And, you know,” she said, “I know you won’t give me shit about being like, too weak, or too emotional, or something. They might.”

“Doesn’t sound like them.” That sounded like _John_ , but those wouldn’t be his choice of words. He’d usually go for something like _too average, too error-prone._ “And, for the record, I do think you’re _way_ more invested in this than you should be.”

“For a _normal_ person?”

“For any person,” you said, “Even for me, and I say that with almost twenty years of hunting experience.”

“It’s the only thing I want to do,” she said, “Please. I’m good, I swear. I’ll prove it to you,” she said, “I’ll do anything. Test me. But if I pass, you have to train me.”

“I - I don’t know.”

“Just, think about it,” she said, handing you a piece of paper, “Here’s my number. And my email.”

You pursed your lips, but took it, saved it to your phone, and pressed _call._ Once it vibrated in her hands, you hung up. “And this is my number,” you said, “I have to think about that _but_ ,” you said, “You ever need anything, anything at all, you know you can call me.”

\--

“Dean said I’d find you here.”

Your head hit the hood of Bobby’s car as you jumped at the voice. “Seven years,” you said, “Seven years on earth and you _still_ don’t know how to announce yourself without giving someone a heart attack.”

Castiel frowned. “You are not exhibiting any signs of a heart attack.”

“It’s a figure of speech, Castiel,” you said, “Take an English class, or something. What do you want?”

He grimaced. “I’ve come across some information,” he said, “About you, while I was searching for Lucifer.”

Your heart pounded in your _ears._ “You’re looking for Lucifer?”

“Someone has to,” he said, “He has to be locked back in the Cage, before he does something. I couldn’t get to him, not this time, but I have heard ‘chatter’. About you.”

“What -” You cleared your throat. Crossed your arms over your chest. Breathed in, out. Tried to keep all your features in check. “What about me?”

“Apparently,” he said, “He told a handful of demons about you. He seems to be under the impression you’re still in the Cage. He wanted them to find a way to break you out.”

“ _What? Why?”_ You had to hold onto the frame of the car for support. “Does he - does he want a vessel -”

“I don’t believe he does. Or, yes, he does, but I don’t believe this is the motivation behind this,” he said, “I believe it has to do with the irregularities you’ve exhibited since you resurfaced. Like the fact that I cannot sense you, beyond your physical form. But you feel. You sleep.”

“How - what? I lost you there. What makes you think that?”

“Because,” he said, “He didn’t refer to you as his vessel. He referred to you as his _project._ ”


	6. Chapter Six

Soldiers don’t show weakness.

They _can’t;_ the moment they do, everything they do, everything they represent, everything they’re trying to protect, is _fucked._ And you’re a soldier. You’ve always been a soldier; the way you trained, the weight on your shoulders, the constant threat to your very existence, topped only by the threat of getting caught in said weakness. Of being vulnerable. Of being caught in a cycle of running, and fear, instead of facing things head-on, of being the attacker, not the victim.

But, _fuck_ , you just needed a moment to _breathe._

Your hand gripped the cold metal of the car’s hood, your fingers rubbing against the dust. It felt like such a strain to keep your neck up, to not cave in to the weight that downed on you. Your short hair fell over the sides of your face, blocking Castiel from your peripheral vision. What does _I don’t know_ even _mean?_ Aren’t angels supposed to be all-knowing? Aren’t they supposed to be thinking of the universe in terms of the grand picture, of cause and effect, of the raw physics, of truth?

Then how could he _not_ know what Lucifer meant? How could he not know what he’d done to you?

“Do you remember something - anything - from your time in the Cage?”

You shut your eyes. “Bits and pieces.”

“Do you remember anything that might explain what he meant?” Castiel asked, “A project implies that he’d put in...work...to...achieve a certain goal.”

“I don’t - I don’t know.”

You braced yourself for the yelling. For an angry angel, frustrated with your limitations, with your weakness, grabbing you by the collar and pinning you against the car, demanding answers. But all he did was sigh. “Then we must start investigating,” he said, “Let’s go. I will call Sam and Dean on the way to the bunker, make sure they meet us there.”

Sam and Dean. And _Mary._ Mary, who didn’t know that you were in hell to begin with. Mary, who’d made several comments about how she missed you, how she wanted to get to know you better. Mary who, for some twisted reason, thought the world of you, even in her struggle to adjust. The one who didn’t even want you - any of you - to become hunters. The one you’d been avoiding since you told Dean about Toni.

But what was the alternative?

You could run again. You could dig for some of the several properties Gabriel had left behind, the properties you knew were hidden enough, warded enough to keep you safe for a very long time. Away from this. Away from the British Men of Letters. Away from the burning stare of your mother, or the guilt-driven hosting of your brothers. But also away from _here_ , from Bobby’s. From the car you’d _just_ started fixing, because it didn’t feel right to leave it here to rot when you could do something about it. From Sioux Falls, as a whole.

From your family. From everything that means anything to you.

It went against every instinct you had, every impulse, but you pulled the hood strut towards you and let it down. “Yeah,” you agreed, “We should go. I just need to get my things first, from Jody’s. You wait here.”

“Jody’s…” he mused, “Is Claire there? Do you think I could see her?”

 _That_ cleared any fog that you might’ve felt earlier. You picked up your tools, turning towards the shed to put them back. “You stay the hell away from Claire.”

He frowned, his shoulders tensing, almost _hurt_. “Why?”

“I don’t _know_ , Cas,” you said, “Why don’t you ask _Jimmy,_ huh?”

His frown deepened. “I told you,” he said, “I fell. I don’t have access to heaven that easily. If you know something, please tell me,” he said, “I want to help.”

_What?_

“Oh.” He grimaced. “I see. No. This is not Jimmy Novak, or any vessel for that matter. This is me. I thought she was - when we text, she doesn’t seem to be stuck on the idea, still.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Fine. Okay. But you’re not going there before we check with her _first_. If she’s even the slightest bit weirded out by this, you stay here and wait for me.”

“Of course.”

“And stay _out of my head_ , dammit.”

\--

“You’re not even going to stay for dinner?”

You shook your head, swinging your duffel over your shoulder. “Sorry,” you said, “But it’s urgent. I have to go,” you explained to Claire, who was the only one at the house at that time, “Tell Jody I said thank you. I mean it.”

She followed you to the door, as if strung to you by a rope. “What about what we talked about yesterday?”

You paused, hand on the door. “I want to help you, kid. I do.”

“But.”

“Yeah. But.” You zipped up your jacket. “I’m - I don’t know where - I just don’t want to put you in danger when you don’t have to be. You can still call - if you need books, or -”

“I _told you_ , I will hunt _anyway_ and -”

“I know. That’s not what I meant,” you said, “It’s me. There’s a lot going on right now, and I don’t want you to get caught in the crossfire, okay? Maybe I can’t keep you from hunting,” you said, “But I _can_ keep you from becoming a Winchester.”

“What does that even _mean?”_

“It means you deserve to be whatever you want to be, Claire,” you said, “Even if it’s a hunter. But you don’t deserve to be claimed by the life like _I_ was, like my brothers were,” you explained, “Because if you _do_ stick around you _will_ get noticed and you _will_ get hurt. And if you want to do any good in this world, you’re better off away from the spotlight, _trust me._ ”

Her stubborn stance faltered, and she nodded. “Okay. But -”

“But _what?_ ”

“I still want to talk to you, is that okay?” she asked, “Don’t tell Jody, but I still - sometimes, I hunt on my own, and the internet isn’t _super_ reliable all the time. Will you at least, like, I dunno, help point me in the right direction?”

You ran a hand through your hair. The idea of someone, anyone, trusting you with _that_ \- the same thing you only trusted Bobby with when you hunted solo - baffled you. But she didn’t know any better, you guessed, and until she did, you could at least try to be worthy of that level of trust. “Yeah. Of course. Whatever you need,” you said, “Text me, or call me, or something, and I’ll do my best to help, I promise.”

She smiled and extended her hand to you. “Deal.”

“Deal.”

\--

“How many keys does the bunker _have_?”

“Only one,” Castiel answered, unlocking the door, “But others can be replicated of the original, given the blood of a rightful member of the Men of Letters is present, along with that of the person intended to use the key, given they’re not members by blood themselves. Other ingredients must be present as well, like -”

“So Sam made you a copy.”

He pushed the metal door in. “If you want to put it simply.” He was a couple of steps ahead of you, down the stairs. “Sam. Dean. We’re here.”

In the library, Sam stood up, while Dean only grumbled, eyes glued to the book he was reading. “Hey,” Sam said, “How was the drive?”

“Good.” Castiel.

“ _Slow_.” You.

The angel visibly disagreed with you, but said nothing. Sam sat on the edge of the table. “And how’s Jody?”

His tone was too low, his eyes too focused on yours, for him to actually be asking how his friend you met was. But you pretended not to notice. “She’s fine. Says hi. She sent some leftover casserole with me. And a couple of frozen meals.” You set your bag down on the table. “ _And_ she gave me some recipes, so we can, and I quote, _try not to starve to death_.”

Sam breathed a smile, while Dean only side-eyed your duffel for what you assumed was an estimation of just how much food you had on you. “I thought you won’t be back for a few days -”

“Or ever,” Dean mumbled.

“- so what’s up?” Sam asked, “How’d you two find each other?”

“He found me.” You jerked your chin in Dean’s direction. “What’s up with you?”

Sam sighed.

“I called you a _million_ times, you didn’t even pick up. We had to track your GPS to make sure the psychic girl didn’t go off on you. But _he_ shows up and you hop on a car with him, just like that?”

You were tired. Tired, and so not in the mood for this. “Sam?”

“Mom left,” Sam explained, “Said she needed some space. He - uh, we - thought you might’ve wanted some space yourself.”

“I - Mom _left?_ ” _I didn’t even get a chance to -_ “Are you serious?”

“Guess we know where you got it from.”

“Can you not be a jerk about this for _one second?_ ” you asked Dean, “I just - so much has been happening, okay? And I never - I never got to say goodbye to Bobby, unlike you, you asshole. I just needed a moment alone so _sue me._ ”

At the mention of Bobby, he straightened in his seat, grimacing. “Yeah, okay,” he muttered, “Sorry.”

You dragged a chair and slumped on it, flinching when your still-sore back hit the wood. “It’s okay,” you said, “Sorry about Mom. I know it must suck for you. Both of you.”

A moment later, Sam spoke again. “Cas?” he asked, “What happened? Why’d you bring Y/N back?”

So he told them. Everything he’d already told you about his discovery, plus how he, apparently, had been working with Crowley, the demon, to get that far in tracking Lucifer down. You wondered why a demon would do that, rebel against Lucifer, and if it was a Ruby situation, but with Castiel. And if it was, why weren’t any of your brothers saying anything? But at this moment, there was bigger fish to fry. If Castiel was being played by Crowley, you could talk to him about that later.

When he was done, Dean was on his feet; he’d always been an anxious person, always having to move whenever he received bad news. Sam, on the other hand, was completely still, his face unreadable. Detached.

“So we hide you,” Sam said, “Should be easy enough, with the bunker. And we always use fake names anyway. But we’ll hide you from the demons, and the angels. They don’t have to know you’re back. You still have the warding, on your ribs, I’m assuming, right? If not, Cas, will you -”

You licked your lips. “That won’t work. Not for long.”

“We hid the king of hell in the dungeon for _months_. No one could find him,” Sam said, “It’ll work. It’ll give us time until we find Lucifer and send him back.” Pause. “We have to.”

“But that’s not what you meant, is it?” Dean asked, “There’s something you’re not telling us.”

 _No_ , you wanted to say, but you were too exhausted, too demotivated, to lie again. “The British Men of Letters found me,” you said, “Twice.”

Somehow _that_ elicited more reaction from the _three_ of them than the news about Lucifer. “Are you serious? _When? How?_ ” Dean asked, “What they do to you? I swear, I’ll hunt every last one of them and -”

You held your hand up. “Relax,” you said, “They didn’t hurt me. They offered me - us - a job. They want us to hunt for them.”

Dean’s laugh was dark - _the nerve on them._

“They don’t seem like the type to ask politely,” Castiel noted.

“Yeah. You’re right.” You fiddled with the hem of your shirt. “They said if I refused, they’d tell Lucifer where I was.”

“So you _knew_ he was looking for you?” Castiel asked, “I -”

“No. I just thought they meant to intimidate me,” you said, “Since I was in the Cage with him, and, uh.”

Dean stared at his feet. Sam kept his eyes strictly on the angel.

“I understand,” Castiel said and, for once, you were thankful you didn’t have to spell this one out for him. “But they could know. They could know something that we don’t, too, about what he meant.”

“Maybe,” Dean said, “Maybe not.”

“Still a lead,” Sam said.

“And how do you suggest we start working that?” Dean asked, “We’re not exactly on friendly terms.”

“I don’t know,” Sam admitted, “We’ll sit together and think of a plan. All of us. We should be able to come up with something. For now, Cas, maybe you could hold off the search for Lucifer.”

“Why?” you asked, “It could help us know where he’s moving, what he’s saying.”

“No, he’s right,” Dean said, “Sorry, Cas. I know this is important to you,” he said, “But the closer you get to him, the closer he gets to her. It’s too much of a risk.”

 _If he doesn’t know where I am, if neither of them do, they can’t be used to get to me. They can be safe. Protected, from all of this._ It ached in your chest, but you had to push it down. You had to give this a solid chance. You had to resist. “So we go the Men of Letters way,” you said, “But it’s just -”

“What?” Sam asked, “What is it?”

“ _Project_.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, “It’s bothering me, too.”

“I _know_ , right?” you said, “And I can’t - I don’t know what he means by that. But I have to, right? I have to know.”

“Cas,” Sam said, “You think you can help? Through - uh - her memories. You can try to -” He paused, looking over his shoulders to lock eyes with Dean, who looked like someone was actively stabbing him in the gut, for some reason. “If you - if you really think it would be helpful, you could try to bring some memories to the, uh, surface.”

The angel shook his head. “I tried. Before we got here. But she only remembers pieces. It wasn’t very helpful.”

_You try remembering the last eight-hundred years of your life, asshole._

“Yeah, but that’s never stopped you,” Dean said, “Even if someone doesn’t remember, you find their memories, and you show them. I’ve seen you do it.”

“You don’t _understand_ ,” Castiel said, “Memories are part of the human soul. They get etched into someone’s soul, forever, it’s the entire idea behind everyone’s personal heaven,” he explained, “But her soul is completely shielded from me. I can’t access it, not like _this_ anyway.”

“But you can think of another way?” you asked. He didn’t mention this in the car.

His eyes were fixed on Dean. Not you. Not Sam. “I can. I’ve done it before. Do you remember?” he asked, “The child, who’d sold his soul to Balthazar.”

“Who?” Sam asked.

“You weren’t there,” Dean answered, “You had a lecture, or whatever, and wouldn’t hunt, remember?” He paused. “Cas, you don’t mean…”

“I have to touch her soul.”

“No. Na-uh. No way in hell.” Dean moved to stand in front of you, between you and the angel. “You’re not gonna do that to her. Find another way.”

“Unless you want to ask Lucifer yourself, there is no other way, Dean,” Castiel said, “He was in there with her soul. He demanded her soul be broken out, and he called it - _her_ \- his _project._ Whatever he did to her, it must’ve left a mark on her. No changes on this level can be done without leaving a mark.”

“Hasn’t she been through _enough?_ ”

“Hi. Still right here,” you said, “I reckon whatever you want to do is going to hurt.”

“On an astral level, but only for the duration of it,” he said, “After that, it will almost be like it never happened.”

“Almost?”

“It’s complicated,” he explained, “But it is negligible.”

“No means _no_ , Cas,” Dean said. “I’m not letting you do this.”

Someone should write a paper about Dean Winchester and how he thought he _let_ the entire world do stuff. You dragged your older brother away by his shirt, looking straight at the angel. “How much time do you need?”

\--

Time was an illusion.

Someone smart said that somewhere, you thought, and they were right. Castiel said he’d only need less than minute, but the moment he touched you, the moment everything started to _burn_ , the moment every cell in you _screamed, and fought, and lost_ \- the moment the pain blinded you, deafened you, took you out of the room, time _stopped._

And it was familiar. Too familiar.

The pain in your back wasn’t. But this - _this_ is what it felt like. You remembered _this_. Because it was never physical down there. It was never about bodily pain. If you had a representation of a body there it was only because it made it more fun for him, because he relied on the correlation between your fear of bodily harm, your instincts, and your fear of _him_ , and what he could do to your soul, to you.

It was so familiar, you didn’t think you had it in you to scream. You’d gone past the screaming, past the begging, after the first few hundred years. It was just a loop of you taking it, and him upping his game, until -

“ _What’s_ happening _?”_

You knew that voice. It was him. From your dream, the other day, right before Magda connected to you. _Who -_

“ _No,”_ the voice said, “ _No. Stop. Stop. STOP.”_

And everything did.

The pain, the blindness, the deafness, it all stopped with one shock. The same shock that sent the angel flying back against the shelves, hitting it so hard it all came crumbling down. Dean honest-to-God froze, while Sam made his way over to Castiel, shaking his shoulder, calling his name. It took a minute, but he recovered, wide eyes searching yours. “I’m fine, Sam. It’s just…”

“What the fuck just happened?” Dean breathed. “Cas? Y/N?”

But you were too focused on the voice. It was just on the tip of your tongue. You _knew_ him. You recognized the way he talked. The way he screamed in your head just now. It can’t be a coincidence.

“This is not supposed to happen,” Castiel said. “This has _never_ happened. We’d _know_.”

“This?”

“Her soul’s blocked. Only she can go through,” he said, and at the confusion in the room, he expanded, “Souls are not actually _in_ the bodies, not on this realm. Physical bodies are like portals, to the realm where the soul is. Angels can go through that barrier. But she - there’s something blocking me - when I got close enough, I could almost feel it, I could almost…” He sat up. “But there’s something there. Between me and her.”

The voice. The voice’s cries came at the same time Castiel was “blocked.” _Think._ It wasn’t like it was a normal voice that you could pinpoint, it was like the voice in your head, the one you felt when you thought. It had no obvious characteristics. If you’d heard it in real life, you wouldn’t recognize it.

But you did. You recognized it. You heard it before. On this level, this exact level, this tone, this - “Oh God.”

“What?” Sam asked, “Do you know what he’s talking about?”

“The voice.”

“What voice?” Dean asked, “Dude. What’s going on?”

“Adam.”


	7. Chapter Seven

You first met Adam in the cage.

You first knew he was, indeed, the half-brother your brothers had mentioned in passing was during one of what Michael loved to call “sessions”. Lucifer is chaotic, sadistic even, but _Michael -_ Michael had a holier-than-thou attitude, even in the deepest, darkest pit of hell. Even when he fought with his brother more than he cared to notice you, or Adam.

You didn’t really talk to him, didn’t communicate beyond what you overheard of each other, what _they_ let you overhear. Sometimes it kept you sane, kept you grounded. Other times, it fueled the frustration, the pain, the anger, beyond any point you could tolerate. You learned to block him out, to pretend he wasn’t there, to let his voice fade into the constant hiss, to pretend it was just you in there on the receiving end of both archangels.

So you couldn’t really know if it was _him._

If the voice, in your head, was actually him, in some way or the other. If he was part of the reason why your soul was blocked from Castiel’s side, or if it was an open connection to him in the cage, kind of like the one you had with Magda, or if it was just your mind, slightly out of balance, trying to keep you grounded by translating your pain to his voice.

You needed answers. You needed answers _now._

“Two Winchesters in one week,” Mick said, “I must be the luckiest fellow in the world.”

The comment didn’t escape you, or your brothers, standing behind you, in front of the Impala, as armed as you were, Castiel lurking in the background, on the closed-off road, hidden, just in case they pulled something _like them,_ but you let it slide. Swallowed it back like the urge to grab him by the suit, point a gun to his head and just _demand_ answers.

“Now,” he said, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’d like to renegotiate our terms.”

He frowned, his lips parting the slightest bit. “You’d like to hunt? For us? All of you?”

Dean grunted behind you but you ignored it. You’d talked about this. “Just me.”

“Ha.” He dug his hands into his pockets. “And might I ask what brought this on?”

“I need something.”

“Of course you do,” he said, “Alright.” He stepped forward, and so did your brothers. “It’s a bit much, don’t you think?”

“Between the three of us,” you said, “You tortured one, tried to murder another, and almost killed a teenager in cold blood in front of the third. Excuse me for not blindly trusting you.”

“Well, that’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”

“We’ll see,” Sam said.

“Right,” Mick said, “So let’s start with the basics -”

“Yeah, no,” you said, “I lay out my terms. And then we’ll go from there.” His green eyes glistened in the sharp sunlight, but he said nothing. “First, I need a few questions answered.”

“Ask away.”

“What do you know about Lucifer?”

“We know enough to keep you safe. Where he’s been. What he’s doing. Whom he’s doing it with.”

“So you know he’s been looking for me?”

“I do.”

“And do you know _why?_ ” Dean’s frustration dripped through his tone.

“I know someone who does,” Mick said, “That person, like the entirety of our resources, will be available to you, if and when we agree to terms.”

You were about to ask him for the terms, when Sam put a hand on your shoulder. “That’s not good enough,” he said, “You lay it all out now, or no deal.”

He tilted his head, his tongue straining against his cheek, before he answered. “No,” he said, “I don’t think so.”

“Excuse me?”

“I tell you now, and best case scenario, you turn me down, again,” he said, “Worst case, you shoot me right here and now. There’s nothing in this for me. But, tell you what,” he said, “You work a few cases for us, and I’ll set up an appointment for you myself.”

“That’s not ominous,” Dean said.

“I’m not trying to be,” Mick said, “Just a few cases here and there. We’ll give you coordinates, and whatever we already know about the case, from our research, and you’ll hunt it. We’ll need proof of said hunt. And we’ll let you know if we need anything from it - like the bodies, or spell ingredients, things like that.”

 _So_ multiple _John Winchesters, instead of just one, except_ \- “I won’t be killing any humans on your behalf.”

“Nor do I expect you to,” he said, “We’re not in the business of hunting humans.”

“Psychics are human.”

“Ah,” he said, “That’s an edge case, really. We value psychics,” he said, “We work with them. Even train them. But in some cases, this raw power gets out of control, hurts people - crosses a line, if you will. And we can’t have that. Not on our watch.”

“Your self-appointed watch,” Sam said.

“Our watch, nevertheless,” Mick replied, “If something like this happens, all you have to do is give me a call, and we’ll send someone to take care of it for you.”

You raised your eyebrows at him. “You think that’s the problem?” you asked, “You think my problem with killing someone is who pulls the trigger?”

“Then how do you suggest we do this?”

You crossed your arms over your chest. “I’ll do it. I’ll hunt, and I’ll give you whatever proof you need,” you said, “But the moment I tell you someone’s off the hook, they’re off the hook, no questions asked,” you said, “No attack dogs after them to _clean them up_.”

“And where does that leave us?” he asked, “You, hunting, as usual, while we do all the work for you, _and_ you still let the monsters slip through?”

“I don’t let monsters slip through.”

“You did only a few days ago.”

“Magda isn’t -” _wasn’t?_ “- a _monster._ She was a _victim._ ”

“They’re not mutually exclusive concepts,” Mick argued, “She still murdered an innocent person. Hell, she almost killed _you_ , too, didn’t she?”

Was Mick _himself_ psychic?

“Tell you what,” he said, “We’ll play your way. But with two conditions: one, this only extends to cases where things were just _out of the ordinary._ Think, weird sightings, pranks between children, etcetera. No murder. And, two: biologically human. One hundred percent. No exceptions. Then you get to make a _request_ , and we either grant it, or we don’t.”

You grit your teeth, but what other options did you have at this moment that didn’t involve confronting the devil and risking giving him something he’d been after, something that he’d called a _project?_ “Fine.”

“ _Good,_ ” he said, “Now, of course, in order for this to work, we won’t be sending you any cases that could involve demons, or demonic activity. Or angels. If you truly want to stay hidden.”

“Why not angels?” Dean asked. Fishing, you knew.

“Angels can telepathically communicate,” Mick explained, “If one of them notices the infamous Y/N is back from the Cage, I have no doubt they’d make it public, fast.” He turned his attention back to you. “If _you_ find any of those cases, feel free to pass them on to me. I’ll allocate them accordingly.”

“And how many?” you said, “Before I get to meet the Oracle?”

Dean snickered behind you, while Mick only rolled his eyes. “Three? Four?”

“Three’s enough.”

“Three it is,” Mick said, “After that, our agreement becomes official. Contract, and everything.”

“Fine. Okay.”

“ _Great_ ,” he said, “I don’t think there’s anything left for us to discuss, for now, unless you have any questions?”

“Yeah,” you said, “The fuck was that about meeting another Winchester?”

\--

It never really sunk in that your mother was _here._

Even a month after you were both brought back, it was pretty surreal. You knew she was there, on some conscious level. You still called her Mom, because calling her Mary would acknowledge that not only was she here, but she was here _now_ , the same age as _you_ probably, and that’s not counting the years you missed while dead. Calling her Mary would acknowledge that she _was_ , in fact, the same person you remembered in your mind. An entire person, with thoughts and opinions and struggles of her own. Not an idea, a model.

Calling her Mary made her more of your mother than calling her Mom did.

Because the mother you remembered was your everything. She was the one you’d imagined yourself confiding in as a child, and as an adult. When you ran away, from everything, from everyone, you’d think of her. Of how she’d be there for you, how she’d support you, because that was just the type of person your mother _was_ , wasn’t it?

Sam was probably the only one who’d thought of her as how she really was: technically his mother, technically the person he’d always wanted to meet, but instead of keeping her in that mold you and Dean seemed to keep her in, he met her as she was. He introduced himself as _he_ was. Now, as an adult, after everything. He didn’t tell her himself about Stanford, for example, didn’t talk to her about his childhood. He’d still seek her approval, her presence, but not to relive some lost years, to create new ones.

You couldn’t get that idea working in your head, no matter how hard you tried.

In your mind, your mom would protect you, more than you’d protect yourselves. More than your father ever did. She wouldn’t betray you, no matter how tempting it was for her. As selfish as it was, you’d expected to come first. So you couldn’t - couldn’t _fathom_ the idea of her willingly finding the British Men of Letters. Willingly joining them. Behind your backs. Despite what they did to you, to all of you. It was just -

It _hurt._

And you were tired of being hurt, of everything that came with it. You were tired of having to go with your body’s natural response to unsettling news, to everything that had been going on. It pissed you off. It wasn’t you. It wasn’t how you were raised. How you made it so far, even when you _didn’t._ It affected you, and you _hated it._

She wouldn’t answer the phone when Sam and Dean tried to call her. But when you did - when _you_ did, she picked up, and she told you she’d only meet you. Dean’s entire demeanor broke, and it pissed you off even more. How _dare_ she? How _dare she?_

Sam stuck to Dean’s side, and took him back to the bunker. Castiel offered to stay, and you would’ve said no, except you didn’t really _want to_ , so he stuck around at the motel you’d checked in while waiting for her. He wasn’t half-bad. It was weird, interacting with him like this, like a friend, but it also worked. Somewhat.

At least he didn’t stab you in the fucking _back_. At least, even when he was against you, he was upfront about it. At least you could, to some extent, trust him. You couldn’t say the same thing about the person in front of you right now.

“Hey, Y/N,” Mary said, voice soft, as she dropped into the seat across from you at the diner, “It’s so good to see you again. How have you been?”

You tapped on the table separating you. “Fine. What about you? What have you been up to?”

She shrugged, looking down at her hands. “Not much,” she said, “I’ve been retracing your father’s journal, trying to fill in some gaps, you know? So much to catch up on.”

“Aha.”

“What about you?” she asked, “I heard about what happened, you know. During the hunt, with Dean and Sam. Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. I’m good.”

“You know I’m here for you,” she said, “I know John’s been hard on you. I could see it in his journals.”

“He was hard on _all of us_ ,” you said, your legs pulling against the rough tiles, “Not just me.”

She grimaced. “Yeah,” she said, “I know. I never wanted this life for you, you know.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” you snapped, “Could you just stop pretending you give a shit what happens to me? To any of us?”

Her eyes met yours so fast and so hard you had to break eye contact, to tilt away in your seat a little bit. “Y/N, you have to understand,” she said, “I only left because - it was just too much in the bunker, too soon. I needed to get on equal footing before I came back. Work some things out. But I didn’t _abandon_ you. I love you - all three of you.”

“It’s not even _about_ that,” you said, “You want to take some time for yourself? To make peace with everything? Fine, that’s - that’s more than fine, do whatever the fuck you want. It’s your life. Whenever you decide to come back, you know Dean - _we’d_ be thrilled to have you back again. But no, _Mary_ , that’s not about that. This is -”

You were interrupted by the waitress bringing your food, and you had to take a deep breath, straighten your back.

“- This is about the _deal_ you made with the British Men of Letters! How _could you?_ ”

She blinked, tucking her hair behind her ears, her thumb scratching the fork she was holding. “I wanted to talk to you about that.”

“Talk to me about _what?”_ you asked, “They _tortured_ Sam. They almost _killed_ Dean. Right in front of you. But you just - you went ahead and _joined them?_ Without even _discussing_ it with anyone?” You leaned your elbows on the table. “We had to find out from _them_.”

She shook her head. “You don’t understand - wait,” she said, “How did you find out from them? Did they _reach out_ to you?”

“You don’t wanna know,” you said, “Or maybe it doesn’t matter if you do. Who gives a shit anyway, right?”

Her face reddened, and the muscles in her hands tensed. “I do. You have to believe me. I _do._ ”

You pushed the plate in front of you away, appetite never really there. “Yeah, well,” you said, “Kinda hard to, given the circumstances. But yeah, sure, let’s hash this out. Hi. The reason I died seven years ago is because when we stopped the apocalypse, I had to jump in Lucifer’s cage with him, Michael, and our other half-brother, Adam -”

“John had another _kid_?”

You couldn’t do this. You thought you could, but you couldn’t. One parent being completely dismissive of anything concerning you was enough for one lifetime, or two. You shook your head, standing up, and snatching out your wallet and slapping some bills, enough to cover both meals, on the table. “Listen,” you said, “You do whatever the fuck you want. I know any expectations of you are probably not fair, seeing that we’re, you know, not your kids, not really,” you said, “But don’t pretend like you care about us, alright? Don’t. I won’t let it. It’s not fair. To _any of us._ ”

She was up and behind you in an instant, grabbing your arm on the way out. “Wait!” she said, “You don’t _understand_ , Y/N. I have to do this.”

People were starting to pay attention to you, so you moved until you were well into the parking lot. “You don’t _have_ to do anything,” you said, “You were dead thirty-something years. They have _nothing_ against you,” you said, “ _You_ reached out to _them._ Fuck. I tried. We _tried_ to - to make sense of this,” you said, “To find one good excuse why you’d just -” _Deep breath._ “But we didn’t find any. So, _help me._ Tell me one good reason why you’re doing what you’re doing.”

She looked down again. “I’m the reason you’re like this - all of you. I can’t - I have to make it _right_.”

 _I have to make it right...by killing all the monsters ever._ God. Where did you hear _that_ before?

“You know what, Mary, I don’t care anymore. It’s us,” you said, “Or them.”

Her shoulders shrunk, and you knew, you knew right then what she’d say next. You’d seen it too many times. You’d felt it in your guts too many times. “I’m sorry.”

You took out the keys to your car. “Yeah, well,” you said, “I’m sorry, too.”

\--

“Do you always monitor your new hires?”

“More like interns,” _Ketch_ , apparently his name was, said, “But, no, this is unusual. But then again, so are you.”

You glanced back for a second, assessing his perfect stance that didn’t seem to waver, and checked to see if your gun was properly loaded. The hotel you were staying at was too nice, too clean, for this to feel like any ordinary hunt as you’d hoped anyway. “Ah, yeah. I feel so special.”

He approached you, extending his briefcase. “Don’t you want to see what I’ve brought?” he asked, “The toys are half the fun.”

You rolled the sleeves of your shirt and took it. The lock was a bit tricky to open at first - so tricky, it pinched your thumb enough to draw a drop of blood and you hissed. “How old _is_ this thing?”

He shrugged. “It’s durable. Reliable.”

You rolled your eyes. “Right.” With one more push, a much softer one, it clicked open, revealing an honest-to-God _sniper rifle._ “Seriously?”

“You _do_ know how to fire it, don’t you?”

 _In_ theory. “Of course,” you said, “But why? It’s just a shifter, right?”

“It’s a whole family of shifters,” he said, “According to our intel, they’re highly trained. Last three hunters who went after them were found dead of gunshots to the head. Part of the reason why they they’re sending _us_.”

“So, silver bullets.”

“Iridium,” he corrected, “That way it doesn’t have to be to the heart. Just has to be fatal.”

You snapped the case shut and turned towards the door. “How are the British Men of Letters funded, exactly?”

“Oh, you know,” he said, “Assets here and there, investments in businesses worldwide, that sort of thing. Let me carry that for you.”

You almost wanted to hold it against your chest as a childish sign of protest, but you were far too tired of this entire _thing_ already to care. When you made it to the parking lot, he wouldn’t let you get into your car. Instead, you were using his black one; _you have to be less conspicuous if you’re going to work with us - can’t have you get noticed by the monsters or the authorities now, can we?_

This whole thing, this whole deal, felt so _sleazy_. Need-to-shower-the-moment-I’m-done sleazy. Even if it _was_ only a hunt. Even if it was only on a “trial basis”. It irked you, and it irked your brothers, even the angel, but there weren’t really many options right now. And it kept you busy, instead of dwelling over the Lucifer issue, instead of being at the bunker right now, with everything that had happened with Mary.

“This hunt is a good start for you,” he said, driving to the location of the warehouse the shifters supposedly owned and worked at, “It’s a classic - first, we confirm the intel. We make sure we’re hunting the right targets, and that we get every single one of them. The intel is rarely wrong, unless they convey a certain degree of uncertainty in the report - which they haven’t, this time.

But shifters are tricky, you see. You have to confirm on the spot. One of us will wear _this -_ ” He leaned over to grab a pair of sunglasses from the dashboard. You raised them against the sun - nothing. Completely matted. “You have to turn them on first. They contain a tiny camera that relays the scene in front of you, so you can see their eyes on the move.”

It was pretty neat, you had to admit. Shifters were such a pain in the ass, mainly because you didn’t know where to shoot. “So one’s on the ground, the other points and shoots?”

“Exactly,” he says, “Which would you rather be? I’ll let you choose this time.”

“You say they hurt people?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” he said, “What I do know is that they’ve killed the hunters that were after them, every single time without fail.”

It was good enough for you. It had to be. Even if there was a good chance it was in self-defense. Truth was, you didn’t want to know. You didn’t want to get close enough to know. “I’ll shoot.”

“Very well,” he said, “I’ll need to scan the perimeter first, make sure no one else is there. If there is, we’ll have to get them out first. If there’s no one, I’ll lure one of them out, and shoot to kill. The sound alone should get the others going. By the time they’re out, I’ll be gone, and you’ll start shooting. When they’re dead, you can leave. But I’d rather you stay,” he said, “You’ll need to learn how we clean up as well.”

“Fine.”

“There’s another pair of glasses here somewhere,” he added, “Keep it, should something not go as expected.”

“How many shifters are there?”

“Seven.”

“Sounds like more than a two-person thing.”

“You’ll often find that what they assign to me, to us, is usually out of the ordinary, but nothing we can’t handle,” he says, “If we need backup, we can request it, at any time. And I’m sure you have your own backup as well, if need be.”

“Yeah,” you said, “If need be.”

\--

It went like clockwork.

You weren’t sure what Ketch posed as, but he got to roam the entire place, and then came out with one of them, who was still talking to him, and just got his gun out and shot him. You knew it was a monster, but _still_ \- the complete apathy hit too close to home, and you needed a second to recover. After that, it was easy. He disappeared, and the rest showed up - six more, all dead thanks to the rifle in your hands, and the position _he_ picked, which was a little too thought out, too perfect.

All in all, it took maybe ten solid minutes, and then you were left with seven bodies. You could’ve turned around then, waited by the car, but it was still _seven bodies._ Even if you loathed the guy, it would take him forever just to go back and forth to fetch them. And you wanted to be done as soon as possible. Go back to working on Bobby’s car, until the second hunt comes around, and then you have to do it all over again.

“Good work,” he said, when you emerged, “Are you going to help?”

“Sure, why not.”

“Ha. Thank you,” he said, “Why don’t you give me _that_ -” he gestured towards the rifle, “And I’ll put it back, and bring the car closer here?”

You handed it over, and he left. The scene wouldn’t have bothered you if it were a normal hunt. If it was just you, and it didn’t feel so damn _icky._ But there was something in your gut that just didn’t feel right. Something didn’t fit. It was too easy, too quick, too detached. When you hunt, you usually work up the motivation to kill, the justification, but this time there was none. You just had to execute, and it was such a foreign feeling, it stung a little.

You heard footsteps behind you, and was just about to bend down to start carrying one of the bodies, someone said, “Did _you_ do this?”

_Fuck._

You knew it was too good to be true. You drew your gun, but your attacker was too fast, too strong, too _trained_ \- eight. _Eight fucking shapeshifters, you arrogant, all-knowing son of a bitch_. “Hey, hey, hey,” you said, now without your gun, “Let’s talk this out, alright? You think I could’ve killed all of them?”

Dean usually got away with this. But you didn’t. Not this time. In a blink, he was on you, _without_ the gun, just his bare hands. You punched. You punched and you kicked and you flipped and you grunted, but he didn’t stop, wouldn’t stop, and that British asshole was nowhere to be seen.

Blood dripped from your forehead and you were panting, both of you, crouched in front of each other like animals in a cage. “I’m not alone,” you said, “You can go, and we won’t follow you.”

But he wasn’t in the mood to talk, you noticed. No talking, and no shooting, the way you’d heard the other hunters went. It was just as disorienting, as weird, as this entire so-called hunt. But you didn’t have the time or the luxury to think about that. You reached for your switchblade, even if it wasn’t silver, and you pounced.

But he caught you. So easily. And had you trapped, face down on the ground, one hand on your chin, the other on the side of your head. Fuck. _Fuck._ This was it. He was too strong, too heavy, his hold too _precise_ for this to end any other way than with your neck snapped in half. And Ketch was nowhere to be seen, still.

You didn’t want to die, _dammit._ You’ve _just_ been back, after so long, after _so much_ and you couldn’t - you _wouldn’t -_

The next thing you knew, everything was bright - _so bright -_ and you _screamed,_ and _he screamed,_ and then it was dead silent. The shifter’s weight doubled on your back, and you could see deliberate footsteps approaching.

But before you could see who it was, everything faded to black.


	8. Chapter Eight

“Who died?”

You scowled at Dean, hugging your coffee with both hands, legs crossed. The diner was, thankfully, only dimly lit and quiet. Sam shrugged off his jacket and slid beside you. “You look like shit.”

“Did you lose all your manners on your way to Sioux Falls?”

“No,” Dean said, “But I did kill Hitler.”

You blinked, turning to the saner brother, but even he had a straight face on. “Wait. Seriously?”

Dean’s lips turned up, his shoulders slightly risen, eyes glowing with pride. Shapeshifters with assassin-level training, and apparently Hitler _was_ alive, and your brother killed him. What was this month even. You took another sip of your espresso.

“Cool.”

Dean’s eyebrow rose. “No, seriously,” he said, “What’s up with you? What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

He exchanged a glance with Sam, then said, “You don’t know?”

You shrunk into the comfort of your flannel. “I think I’m losing my mind.” Your voice was quiet. Matched the rhythm of your heart. “In the literal sense of the word.”

Sam turned towards you. “What makes you think that?”

“Look.” You put your cup down. “I almost didn’t call you guys,” you admitted, “But I need - I don’t know, I don’t know what I need,” you said, “But I can’t go on like this.”

“Like…”

“I keep - I dunno - _glitching_ ,” you said, “I remember things that didn’t happen. I forget things that _did_. I passed out a couple of times. Don’t even know why.”

Sam frowned. “How long has this been going on?”

If you could pin it down to one time, it was definitely on the first hunt with Ketch. You remembered the shapeshifter almost snapping your neck, but then _something_ happened, and he let go, and you were _sure_ he’d died, or at least passed out, before you passed out yourself. You woke up in the hotel room. Ketch was cleaning his guns, and told you that you got ambushed by another shapeshifter, which you remembered, but then he came in and shot him dead, which you _didn’t_ remember.

It was a while before you felt his weight on you, and if there was a gunshot you would’ve heard it. Even silenced, as Ketch claimed; silenced guns are muffled, but they’re not actually _silent._ And what about that brightness you’d seen? His screams? Your screams? What were those?

But he insisted. He even showed you the pictures he’d taken after he got you out from under him, and sure enough, the eighth shapeshifter was shot in the head. Ketch didn’t offer a solid explanation as to why or how you passed out, though. _You probably hit your head, or something of the sort._

It wasn’t the only time, though. The second time, it was on the second hunt - a natural-born witch. Once again, she had a fighting advantage. Once again, you saw the brightness, and heard the screams, before you passed out. But that wasn’t the story according to your _other_ partner, Mick. He’d said that you actually defeated the witch, that you shot her with witch-killing bullets, but before she hit the ground, you were out of it. _Might want to eat something before you hunt, you know. It’s irresponsible, what you did. If you’d passed out a minute earlier everyone would’ve been_ dead.

But you couldn’t pinpoint it for sure. You couldn’t be absolutely positive this was the first time this had happened. How could you, when you couldn’t even remember? “A while, I guess,” you said, “But I only started noticing it recently.”

“Since you started hunting for the British Men of Letters?” Dean guessed.

You shrugged. “I can’t be sure.”

“Did you see a doctor?” Sam asked, “Could be a head injury of some sort.”

You nodded. “She said she couldn’t find anything herself, but I also needed some scans to be sure. The hospital was super uptight about the paperwork, though, before I could do anything, and I didn’t want to ask _them_ for anything, so.”

Dean licked his lips. “Yeah, no, you don’t have to,” he said, “We can work on the paperwork, if you want, or we could just ask Cas. That might take a while, though.”

“Why?” you asked, your tone level, “Where is he?”

“He’s been working some leads,” Sam explained, “Trying to find out anything about what, uh, Lucifer said. We haven’t heard from him in a few days, but it’s not unusual. He does that when he’s working something.”

“Oh,” you said, “Well, I didn’t call you here for the paperwork. I’ve been working on it myself. Trying to get something semi-legit this time so if it’s something serious I don’t have to keep hopping between hospitals,” you explained, “I just - I guess I could use a favor.”

Dean leaned forward. “ _Anything._ ”

“If one of you could stay with me,” you said, “At least until the third hunt is done. I just - I don’t think -” You took a deep breath. “I don’t want to screw it up, so I can be done with this.”

“Tell you what,” Sam said, “Why don’t you let us handle it? Whatever they send your way. Where are you staying right now?”

“In my car,” you said, “The house is too cold. And I couldn’t possibly ask Jody.”

“Why not a motel?” Dean asked.

You fiddled with the cup. “Not enough cash,” you said, “And the credit card I have is almost maxed out.”

The disappointment that radiated from both of them made you flinch. It wasn’t enough that you proved to be an incompetent hunter twice in a row, but you’d also failed at the most basic level. You’d done this before, too many times, but maybe what got you going then was gone now. Maybe your time in the Cage took whatever basic competence you had from you.

“ _Jesus,”_ Dean breathed, “Why didn’t you call us earlier? What exactly were you waiting for?”

“I thought I could handle it,” you said. “But I was wrong. I -” You cleared your throat. “I need help.” You turned to Sam. “But I can’t let you guys take the hunt. I have to go through with this.”

“No, you _don’t_ ,” Sam said, “They need a hunter for the job, and they’re going to get two, what more could they want?”

“It’s not about them,” you said, “I can’t - I didn’t ask you here so I can sit back while you do all the work. We talked about this. I told you, neither of you is getting involved with them, not on my account, and especially not you, Sam.”

“And you know what, Y/N, we respected that,” Dean said, “But it’s different now. It’s not _worth it._ ”

“What’s not worth it?”

“Trying to prove you’re tough, or whatever. We know, kid,” he said, “You don’t need to pull that shit with us. How tough will you be when you get yourself killed, huh? _Again?_ ”

“Dean.”

“No, Sam, someone has to say it,” Dean said, “Whatever it is that’s going on with you, it sounds serious. And you can’t just _work through_ that.”

“I know I need help, Dean,” you said, “But I just can’t sit on the sidelines until further notice. I need to work,” you said, “I need to get to the bottom of this Lucifer thing.”

“That’s not really worth it, either.”

You stared at your little brother. He, of all people, should know _._ “What?”

He tucked his hair behind his ear. “It’s just _not_. It can wait.”

“It’s what we’re here for,” Dean corrected, “We’re not sidelining you. You just need to rest,” he said, “Figure this out. See a doctor. Get better. Trust me, monsters will be waiting on the other side. You won’t miss a thing.”

You shook your head. “I can’t just sit back and watch you risk yourselves for me.”

“But you’re okay with us sitting back and watching you get worse?” Sam asked, “You said you needed help. So let us _help you._ ”

You pursed your lips.

“At least until we know what’s wrong,” Sam added, “And if it’s nothing, then there’s that, and you can go back to shooting things for a living, if that’s what you want.”

\--

_Sam POV_

“So get this.”

Sam pushed the lid of his laptop down. He’d have to tell Y/N to switch her location services on later. “You got something?”

Dean set two bags that said _Billy’s Burgers_ on the motel table, taking off his fed jacket. “The murders? They all check out. All the people in this report are dead.”

“But?”

“But they all died normal deaths, as far as anyone knows. Nothing witchy about it,” he said, “But, you know, okay. We’ve been there. Doesn’t mean there wasn’t a witch in town. So I asked around the hotel where it all went down.”

“And?”

“And nothing, _nada_ ,” he said, “The room was rented out to someone whose name they couldn’t disclose.”

“Not even to a federal agent?”

He nodded. “They said it was above my pay grade. You know what that means.”

Sam grimaced. “Either they were dealing with a high profile witch,” he said, “Which wouldn’t add up to the string of deaths of the locals, or…”

“The British Men of Letters set this up,” he said, “Set _her_ up.”

“But _why?”_ Sam asked, “She said that Mick Davies person was there, too. And if they wanted to kill her, they would’ve done it already, or at least tried.”

“Beats me,” Dean said, “But whatever it is, something’s off. Kinda wish we had the time to stop by where that shapeshifter thing went down, too.”

“Still think we should go through with the third hunt?”

Dean sat down, and started unpacking his meal. Pushed the other one towards his brother. “Hell yeah,” he said, “At least if it’s a trap, there’s two of us.”

Sam took out the salad container from the bag. Somehow, it looked greasier than the burger Dean was having. But he was too hungry, too drained, to care. “I can’t believe she’s actually staying put.”

Dean dove into his fries. “I know. It was almost too easy. But did you see her, man? She looked so…”

“Yeah.”

“It’s so unfair.”

“I know.”

“Can’t wait until this is over,” Dean said, “Lucifer’s back in the Cage. Or even better, _dead._ ”

Sam dug into the lettuce. “And then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean we’ve been through this,” Sam said, “He’s done something to her. This doesn’t just go away on its own.”

“Are you talking about the project thing?” Dean asked, “Or the, you know.”

“Both.”

“Are you ever gonna tell her?”

Sam scoffed. “Would _you?_ ”

“You’re not me.”

“No, _really?”_

Dean rolled his eyes. “I think you should tell her,” he said, “Get it out of the way.”

Sam shifted in his seat. “And say _what,_ exactly?”

“I dunno,” Dean said, “The truth?”

“Dean,” Sam started, “You’ve seen the way she talks to us, acts around us,” he said, “Do you really think telling her would do her any good?”

“I’d wanna know,” Dean said, “If it were me, I’d want to know.”

Sam didn’t say anything in return, just focused on his salad like his life depended on it. Maybe Dean would want to know, but Sam wouldn’t. He wouldn’t bear the weight that came with it, even if he was reassured that it was well in the past, that it was over now. The way Sam sees it, she carried enough guilt as it was. The first few days of her being back were okay; she was obviously happy to be alive again, ready to jump back into the natural order of things.

But then with every minute she spent in the bunker, with them, with Mom, sucked some of that happiness from her. He could see it. He didn’t know if Dean could, but he could see it in the way she moved, how late she’d slept in. And then the hunt with the psychic girl - Magda - broke her down all the way. So much, she felt the need to go back to Bobby’s - something she hadn’t even talked about for almost a month.

And now? Now he couldn’t really read her. She was exhausted, sure, and from what it looked like, sick, but there was something about her demeanor that reminded him too much of Dean when he had the Mark, except she didn’t even know what was wrong yet, or if it could be fixed. She just looked...empty, he guessed, like she was just going on for the sake of going on.

He knew that look. He knew that look too well.

So how could he _tell her?_ How could he throw more onto her plate? How could he admit that he’d lied to her, that he’d made Dean and Cas promise to lie to her as well? It just didn’t seem right. And Dean agreed at first. So why was he backing out now?

“Do you think we should help her retire?”

“What?” Dean asked, wiping his mouth with the tissue from the bag. “Retire?”

“After this is over,” Sam said, “We figure out a way for her to be...stable somewhere.”

“We’re stable in the bunker.”

“Yeah, but -”

“If she doesn’t want to hunt, she doesn’t have to,” Dean added, “But she’d want to hunt. She jumped right back in like nothing happened.”

“Yeah, _exactly_ ,” Sam said, “Look, man, all I’m saying is that, unlike us, she could actually swing living a legit life if she got a solid chance, away from everything. Get counseling. Work in private security, or something. Maybe even have a family of her own.”

“Has she ever even dated anyone?”

“ _Dean._ ”

“I don’t know,” Dean said, “On one hand, I don’t wanna lose her. Like we _just_ lost Mom.”

“And on the other?”

“She never got a break. I did, with Lisa and Ben. You did, with Amelia. And we came back. But she never got the chance.” He put the empty containers back in the plastic bag. “I don’t even know what she’d choose.”

“I don’t think she knows, either.”

\--

Sam hit the EMF one more time.

But, nothing. Not a single sound, or a flash of red. The place was _dead._ Forget ghosts - there was no indication of any active power lines, either. He’d scanned the perimeter with Dean before they went in - nothing. There was no one there, and there probably hasn’t been anybody in a long time, given the state of the mansion.

“Are you sure we got the right place?”

“I triple-checked the coordinates,” Dean answers, “You think we should call her?” he asked, “Tell her it’s nothing, have her call them?”

Sam shook his head. “Let’s check out the rest of the place first.”

They walked through the corridors, flashlights crossed with their guns, until they found some light coming from the farthest room. Candlelight, from the looks of it. They followed it, silent, ready to attack. But, like the rest of the place, there was nothing. Except the candles were shaped as a heptagram, and from a certain angle, they could see solid lines connecting them.

“Is this a devil’s trap?”

Sam approached the setup, crouching to see more clearly. “No,” he said, “At least, none that we know. The writing is different. Enochian - but I can’t really make sense of it.”

He’d been studying, from the Men of Letters bunker, with Castiel’s help, but so far he’d only been able to recognize certain phrases and pronounce the words, but new phrases are seemingly foreign, in meaning, to him. Dean squinted. “Think it would show up on the phone if I took a picture for Cas?”

“You could _try._ ”

Judging by Dean’s grunts, it didn’t work. “Phone’s dead.”

Sam slid out his, but - “Mine’s dead, too.”

“We should get out of here.”

The moment Dean uttered those words, the ground glowed beneath them, revealing a bigger trap, one that covered the entire room and looked an awful lot like the Men of Letters symbol. The doors shut, and nothing, not even Dean scratching at those traps, seemed to work to get them open.

Then there was the ringing.

Sam always hated that part. Why couldn’t whatever creature make its entrance without the constant ringing? It didn’t feel like an angel in its true form; for one, those weren’t really around anymore, as Castiel explained this was part of the heavenly realm, and for another it wasn’t powerful enough. It was just _annoying._ Like a kid trying to piss someone off.

But no creature came. When the ringing stopped, the only thing that happened was that the doors opened, and the traps disappeared. “What the hell?”

“Let’s go,” Sam said, “Before it happens again.”

It was easier said than done; with every step Sam took, his body felt heavier, his knees aching to touch the ground. He could tell Dean was going through the same thing - hands on the wall, trying to drag himself out of there, until both of them made it to the front door. “I don’t know what happened in there,” Dean said, “But I’mma kill every last one of those sons of bitches.” _Drag._ “And I’mma _enjoy it_.”

Out of _nowhere,_ seven - _nine_ figures approached the front lawn, guns blazing. The one right in the middle, with a cross on his hand, raised his weapon up, aiming straight at Dean’s shoulder.

“You were saying?”


	9. Chapter Nine

“I told you not to do anything stupid. _This_ is the _definition_ of stupid.”

You ignored the angel’s comment, slipping your holster on. Every muscle in you ached, every bone felt the weight of the gun you tucked in, but it had to be done. And if it took your last breath to find every one of those fuckers and personally slit their throats you would gladly give it, no matter what Castiel _thought._

See, you had a theory.

Before you called Sam and Dean to convince at least one of them to stay with you, you fiddled with the idea of maybe, just maybe, you _weren’t_ losing your mind. Maybe those same assholes that tortured Sam for no reason and tried to kill Dean for trying to find Sam weren’t actually telling you the truth. Maybe what you felt was real, both those times, and they were lying to you, for whatever reason.

Maybe, just maybe, you weren’t as incompetent as you thought.

But you dismissed that theory; it seemed too tin-foil-y, even for a hunter. The world wasn’t out to get you, it never was. That was more Sam’s speed, in your experience. The more likely scenario was that you’d fucked up, so you stuck with that. You let yourself believe it. Because it wasn’t like you’d never fucked up before - fucking up on hunts, for a great part of your adolescence, was your _thing._ So much your thing, John Winchester, who would hunt with a tree if he could stick a gun in it, wouldn’t hunt with you.

But here’s the thing: you weren’t a teenager anymore. And apparently you weren’t going insane either.

At least not in the sense you’d thought just a few days ago. Castiel could probably argue for your insanity right at this moment. “I called you here because -”

“Because you had a _concussion_.”

“Nope,” you said, “Thought I had.”

“Are you _sure?”_ He squinted, shutting the motel room door behind him, “Because it looks to me like you haven’t slept in at least a couple of days, and yet you’re holding a - _two_ guns, and a _knife_ \- are you facing off some cowboy? I thought Dean was the only Winchester with that fantasy.”

“Okay, first of all, I don’t need to know about my brother’s kinks, thanks.” You checked if your duffel had the angel blade you’d borrowed from the bunker. Yup. “And second of all, I’m not going on a hunt; I’m going to get Sam and Dean.”

“From _Purgatory?_ ”

“What?” you said, “No. From the Brits.”

“The British Men of Letters have them?”

“Yeah,” you said, “I - they went on the last hunt instead of me -”

“I can see why.”

You ignored him. Again. “But I couldn’t stay behind for long. I turned off my GPS and followed them.”

“And?”

“And it was a fucking ambush,” you said, “They went in there - it was supposed to be a ghost hunt - but five minutes later, the entire place lit up, and I was about to go in when maybe ten fucking Brits showed up. They tasered them, and took them both.”

“Are you _sure?_ ”

“I was _there_ , Cas,” you said, “But it’s good that you’re here. The place they’ve got them - it ain’t warded. Not like the one they had Sam in before anyway.”

“How would you know?”

You grimaced. “I can feel it,” you said, “Maybe - maybe not a 100 percent, but at least some of it. And I was there this morning. There was nothing.”

He frowned. “Interesting,” he said, and walked forward, palm risen. “At least let me heal you.”

 _Yes, please_. You were one minute away from mixing a power drink with espresso. Again. He pressed his fingers to your forehead, and you anticipated that warmth. But instead, it felt like static. The moment it was over, though, you could open your eyelids all the way.

“Did that feel unusual to you?” he asked, “It was a little difficult.”

“I’ve been awake for maybe 95 percent of the last week, maybe that’s why.” You threw your duffel over your shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go.”

He side-eyed you as you walked, but if he had any thoughts, he didn’t share them. Once you got into your car, he turned to you. “Do you have a plan?”

“I’m sticking with _don’t die._ ”

“That might be good enough most of the time,” he said, “But something doesn’t quite add up - why would they take them?”

You shrugged. “I dunno,” you said, “Why did they take Sam when they first got here?”

“This is different,” Castiel said, “You’d reached an agreement. You were hunting for them.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So what they were waiting for?” he asked, “If they ambushed _them_ , but they went on _your_ behalf, that ambush was meant for you, wasn’t it?”

You hadn’t thought about it like that. “I thought they ambushed them _because_ they went on my behalf.”

“Maybe, though that would also be a red flag,” Castiel said, “Were there usually ten of them at your other hunts?”

“No,” you said, “Usually just one.”

“I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

“Welcome to my life, Cas.” You swerved a little to avoid a random can someone had thrown into the street. “Look, we’ll just go in,” you said, “And see what happens.”

He sighed. “I was a soldier for aeons,” he said, “Not once has that plan succeeded without someone getting hurt, or worse.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Then what do you suggest?”

“I’m afraid what I have in mind might also fall under the category of _stupid things._ ”

\--

“Hey Mick.”

“Y/N,” he said, “Are you calling to debrief me on yesterday’s hunt?”

Maybe you’d punch him before you shoot him. You could almost feel his jaw on your knuckles. “No, no,” you said, “My car broke down on the road last night. Had to get it towed and all. I’m going in there today,” you said, “Just wanted to ask if one of your nerds could do some research for me?”

“Oh,” he said, “Sure. Why don’t you come in? Our base is only a couple of hours away. You can get your research done,” he explained, “And we could have a little chat, seeing this is the third hunt, and all.”

“Can it wait until I’m done?” you said, “You can just send me the research over the internet.”

He paused. “Uh, I’m afraid our connection isn’t so great at the moment.”

Even the angel rolled his eyes at that. “Ah, well,” you said, “Guess I’ll just have to hit the local library or something.”

“Are you sure? We’re only a couple of hours away.”

“Yeah, I’m good here.”

“So when are you going in?”

“Going in?”

“The mansion,” he said, “For the, uh, hunt.”

You lived to witness the day Mick Ice Gut Davies echo nervousness on the phone. Maybe that wasn’t what they planned, either. Maybe Castiel had a point. “Today, seven-ish, maybe,” you said. Depending on the outcome of this conversation, you might need the few hours until then. “If there _is_ a ghost there anyway. I talked to the family of the victim this morning.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Oh, you know,” you said, “Didn’t want any bad intel to get me this time, too. Anyway,” you said, “They think the kid OD’d. So it might not even be a ghost.”

“Doesn’t hurt to go there yourself and check it out.”

From the other end of the table, Castiel locked eyes with you _\- See, something’s wrong._

“Yeah, sure,” you said, “I’ll be there tonight.”

“Seven, you said?”

“Sure.” You tilted the phone closer to you. “Why, are you planning on coming?”

“Oh no,” he said, “This is an easy enough hunt.”

“Yup.”

“Talk to you later.”

The call ended with a beep. Castiel sunk back in his seat, shoulders slumped. “Okay,” he said, “So you go.”

“I go.”

“And I go to the mansion,” he said, “That should at least split them up between us.”

You tapped on the edge of the couch you were sharing. It was a better plan than barging in, but it also meant you had to wait a couple of hours before you were able to attempt the search and rescue. A couple of hours they could be doing God-knows-what to your brothers. All because you sent them instead of you. None of this would’ve happened if you hadn’t let them go on your behalf.

None of this would’ve happened if you’d just gotten your shit together.

“You know,” Castiel started, “I might have healed your symptoms, but your body - your soul - still requires sleep.”

“Can’t.”

“ _Won’t_ ,” he corrected, “It doesn’t make you selfish to rest now, especially if there’s nothing to do but wait until it’s time to go.”

You crossed your arms over your chest. “Would _you_ sleep?”

“I do not require nor do I crave sleep.”

You rolled your eyes.

“But I see your point,” he said, “I know I can use the time to do other things, like communicate with heaven again, but everything feels...on hold until this is over.”

The corner of your lips twitched. “You think of Dean and Sam as family.”

He smiled. A warm, small smile. “Yes,” he said, “I love them very much.”

You couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy in your heart, like all this time you were gone, they had someone else, someone more reliable, someone who didn’t hurt innocent people. Someone who was part of their team. Who had their backs. But it was hard to direct that jealousy at Castiel. Maybe if he was more like some of the other angels, more used to colloquial language, to pop culture, you could hate him. But right now? Maybe for the first time, you couldn’t.

“Should we call Mary?”

The shake of your head was firm. Unapologetic.

“But she could have some insider information,” the angel argued, “She could help us. And she’d want to know, wouldn’t she?”

“She doesn’t care,” you said, “And I don’t trust her. Not anymore.”

He rested his head on the back of the couch. “I don’t believe it’s that simple.”

“It is,” you said, “She chose them over us once, Cas. What makes you think she wouldn’t do it again?”

“Because she’s still your _mother_.”

“My mother died in 1983.” You sprung to your feet, the couch now too small, too confined. “Hey, do you eat?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted, “I don’t need it, but it’s still a nice reminder.”

“Of?”

“Of when I became fully human. After the fall.”

You sat back down. “Dean didn’t tell me.”

“Dean didn’t tell you a lot of things,” the angel said, “But you should go eat. Get your strength up. You’ll need it.”

You hummed in response. You weren’t that hungry anyway. You’d just thought you could escape the tension in the air. “Hey, earlier,” you said, “Were you in heaven? Did I get that right?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” you asked, “Think they could help?”

“If they are, they’re not keen on it,” he said, “I went because Lucifer hasn’t been showing up anywhere, according to Crowley.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he has never been on Earth for so long without causing some sort of mayhem. I thought heaven had him.”

“And?”

“If they do, they didn’t tell me. Nobody would.” He fiddled with the edge of his trenchcoat. “Not that it’s a surprise.”

You sighed. “But it would be good, wouldn’t it? If they had him.”

“I cannot guarantee that,” he answered, “And if they didn’t, and he’s out there, then he’s up to something.”

“You wanna look for him?”

“What?”

“You and me,” you said, “Sam and Dean don’t have to know. We can look for Lucifer.”

“And then _what?”_ he asked, “Did you _forget_ the reason why you even started hunting for the British Men of Letters?”

“No,” you said, “But it’s not working out, is it?”

“Then we’ll find another way.”

“But does there have to be?” you asked, “I’ve been thinking about it. It - it scares the hell out of me, okay? But we can still have the upperhand here. If we plan it right, we might be able to send him back, or kill him.”

“We don’t have a way to kill Lucifer. Believe me, we’ve tried.”

“Can’t Gabriel’s blade kill him?”

“Theoretically,” Castiel said, “But, like other archangel weapons, it has been lost, or, as many assume, destroyed.”

Gabriel wasn’t sloppy, though, that much you knew from your time with him. An important rule of his “witness protection program” was not only not to get attached to things, but also not to get rid of them in case they prove to be useful one day. He’d shown you once, in one of his hideouts, how he’d created locator spells for every single thing or person he’d ever gotten attached to. How he’d hidden that knowledge in the worlds he’d created. The worlds that had, supposedly, died with him.

Smart, but useless right now.

“Then we do it all over again.”

Cas frowned.

“But how will we find the rings again? Did Sam and Dean keep them?”

“The _rings._ ”

“Uh, yeah?”

“I don’t - I don’t know,” Castiel said, “Dean had them, for a while. Then he gave Death his ring back,” he said, “But then he killed him. I don’t know what happened to the other rings. Are you talking about jumping back in the Cage, with Lucifer, _again?_ ”

“There is no other way,” you said, “If we can’t kill him, we have to lock him up, and this is the only way to do it.”

“ _No._ ” He sighed. “No,” he said, softer this time, “Ridiculous as it may sound, Crowley’s mother is a powerful witch, and she can lock him back in again.”

“So…”

“Yes?”

“You think this could actually end well?”

“I think we’ll try,” he said, “We’ll fight. We’ll fight Lucifer - we’ll fight for you, until we can’t anymore. You have my word.”

\--

All you had to do was fight.

Fight the two guards on the door - one you shot in the leg, the other clocked you, but thankfully managed to stab him in the one place he should’ve worn a guard for but didn’t. If karma was real, you were already registered for a lifetime of suffering by the time you’d made it inside.

But this place wasn’t like the other one - no. Whoever thought of everything there was different, thought in a different way - more old school, you thought, more like a soldier than a magician; there was no warding, but the place had a serious camera infestation, and electronic locks on some of the doors - something that looked like a device straight out of a Mission Impossible movie. You weren’t as gifted with electronics as Dean was, but you could at least figure out how to cut the circuit enough to loosen the door a bit.

You see, the key is not to give a shit. They’d know you were coming from the cameras anyway.

The only room with an active, glowing lock, was the one right across from you. You picked up your gun, rotated it in your hands, and used it to smash the screen to see the board beneath. Pretty straightforward stuff - a microcontroller connected to the sensor in the screen, the door, and the main network, where, you guessed, it sent its logs to. All you had to do was figure out a way to simulate an acceptance signal from the sensor to the board.

Or you could just smash it and hope it had a fail-safe.

For a second, you thought it didn’t work, but then the door buzzed open a little, revealing even more silver walls in there. Great. Okay. You pushed the door, gun up, inspecting the room. Sure enough, your brothers were in there. But not beaten, not tortured, as you’d assumed, just tied up, and unconscious. Breathing, you noticed, thank _fuck._

You lowered your weapon, and stepped fully into the room, reaching for your knife. The door clicked close - too harsh, too loud to be automatic, and you froze. Of course it wasn’t that easy, that quick. Two guards for two Winchesters? Unconscious or not it was a stretch. You dropped the knife in favor of holding the gun properly, but before you could turn around, someone pressed something smooth, cold, to your neck.

“I knew you’d come here.”

“Ketch.”

He breathed a smile, and turned around, knife - no, _angel blade_ \- still angled at your throat. You could still shoot him. There was a chance he was wearing his bulletproof vest, and your arms weren’t high enough to score a shot to the head, but maybe to his knees, or something. But the problem with angel blades was that they were too strong, too sharp, all over their length and circumference. You could shoot him, but he could also slice your throat in a second.

So you held your hands up.

He reached out for your gun, and you let him have it. Then for your other, holstered gun, and you wished you’d packed a third. Maybe on your ankles or something. How many guns should a hunter have to be safe in this goddamn universe, huh?

“So, what?” you asked, “Toni wasn’t rogue? This was your plan all along?”

“To have all three Winchesters at our mercy?” he asked, “No. Not that I’m aware of. But, what can I say? You’ve become a problem.”

“What do you even _want?_ ” you asked, “You’ve got Mary working for you. I’m betting other hunters signed up as well. It’s not that hard. What’s with the Winchester fetish?”

“Orders, I’m afraid.”

All you had to do was _fight_ , dammit.

You tried to knock the blade off his hand, but his grip was too strong, too aware. You managed to take a step back, though, and get your own knife once again. He decided it was more fun, apparently, not to use your gun, like you would’ve against him, but after what happened with the shapeshifter you learned not to let that distract you.

Unlike the shapeshifter, though, the more he moved, the more he tried to punch you, or lock you in his grip, the angrier you became. That son of a bitch was so entitled, so _arrogant_ that he wasn’t even requesting backup, or making any attempts to contact anyone else that might’ve been there. You were done with this, with him, with _Mick_ \- you were _done_ and that was that.

You felt the knife in your grip soften, ever-so-slightly, but it was probably just the sweat, making it slip a little. It wasn’t what caught your attention, though - no. What caught your attention was how tense his shoulders got, how he was fixated on your hands, and for a moment, just one moment, everything _cleared._

Like you’d just solved a math problem you’d been trying to figure out for days, it all clicked into place. You took a step towards him, and he actually moved back, but _no._ No. He didn’t get to do that. _They_ didn’t get to do this. Behind him, Sam stirred, but you weren’t focused on that - Ketch had to _go._ This whole _operation_ had to go.

For a moment, just one moment, their collective strength, their wealth, their _power_ , didn’t matter. Not one bit.

“Fascinating.” Ketch’s voice wasn’t as sarcastic as you’d expected it to be. “If only she could see her work.”

“Drop your _weapons_ ,” you said, “And get on your knees, _now._ ”

He obeyed, hands above his head as an extra. Huh.

“Who else is in here?”

“The guards - two of them,” he said, “But I suppose you’ve met them earlier.”

“Anyone else?”

“No.”

“I need proof.”

He gestured towards the screen behind you. “You can see all the cameras from there,” he said, but you didn’t turn around to confirm.

You flipped the knife in your hand, gritting your teeth, and walked towards him. With every step you took, you could _see_ his face locking into place. His muscles unwavering. “You have a contact,” you said, “The contact you were supposed to give me, after the third hunt. Give it to me.”

“I was not made aware of -”

You pressed your knife to _his_ throat. “I’m not asking.”

“ _Fine,_ ” he said, “All I know is that there’s a psychic - he used to work for the American Men of Letters. Goes by the name of _Price_ ,” he said, “I was supposed to take you there, _after_ the third hunt.”

“Hm.”

“Now, if you please,” he said, “You can take your brothers and go. I won’t stop you,” he said, “Just - go.”

Sam made a noise, and, from the corner of your eye, you could see him coming back to the surface.

“Yeah.” You tilted your chin in the direction of the several cameras in the room itself. “I don’t think so.”

“You don’t understand,” he said, “The _code_ \- the Men of Letters code - it _demands_ that anyone who kills a member must be killed. We’ve already spared you once.”

You dropped the knife, and replaced it with your palm on the side of his face, his hair twisted between your fingers. “Somehow -” You pressed harder, and you could see the veins in his head, the vessels, color dark red. “- I think that was more for your benefit, than mine.”

You let go, all the way, and the red _spread._ It spread, and it twisted on his face, on his neck, around his bloodshot eyes, until you _felt it._ That _moment._ That _surge._ Like when you’d killed a demon, back then. The second his life ended, and his eyes stared into nothing.

It made you _sick._

The clarity - the determination - you’d felt earlier, was gone in a blink, and all you were left with was the shock that caused you to jump back, let Ketch’s body fall on the ground, his blood spilling from his mouth, and the bile in the back of your throat, that you didn’t really have the energy to fight.

Once you were done, once there was no more food on you, only heaving, you turned to your younger brother. Your hands were shaking, but you were able to snap the zip ties on both him and Dean before you fell back, your eyes fixed on Ketch’s moveless body, his blood, your forearm pressed to your mouth. You’d tried to form a coherent thought - something, anything, but all you got were bits and pieces. Most of said pieces swear words right out of a middle schooler’s detention record.

“Hey,” Sam said, extending a hand to you, “Y/N. Come on.”

“Did - did you -”

“Yeah,” he said, “But we have to go, _now._ ”

“But I just…”

“Listen to me,” he said, “If we don’t leave right now, they’re going to _get you_ , like they wanted to. We have to leave _now._ ”

You nodded.

“I’ll get Dean. You got your car?”

Another nod.

“Good. Go. Get it ready. I’ll be right behind you.”

“What about him?”

“He can rot in here for all I care.”

\--

Castiel might’ve broken a missed call record before you finally answered, turning on the speaker, and giving it to Sam. Dean was barely conscious - apparently, he was a little harder to put down, and they had to sedate him twice, according to Sam - and you - you didn’t know what you were, so you let Sam take the wheel. Both the physical and metaphorical ones.

“Yeah?”

“ _Sam_ ,” Castiel said, “What happened? Did they get her?”

“Y/N?”

“Who else?”

“No,” Sam said, “They didn’t. We’re out. Can you meet us at the bunker? That’s where we’re heading.”

“Uh,” the angel said, “Sure. I’ll just check out of the motel and be on my way.”

“Where were you, man?” Sam asked, “We’ve been trying to get a hold on you _for days._ ”

“...did you not speak to your sister?”

Sam glanced at you, and grimaced. “We’ll - we’ll let you know when we see you. Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he said, “And I think I know what Lucifer did - or what the British Men of Letters think he did, from the trap they had.”

“What?” you croaked.

“The trap was meant to keep someone with a _hybrid soul_.”

“Hybrid soul?” Sam repeated, “I’ve never heard of anything like that before.”

“Neither have I,” Castiel said, “But I have a theory. Several of them, but what Y/N said that day - about Adam…”

“What?”

“I think Lucifer might’ve - somehow - infused her soul with that of her half-brother.”


	10. Chapter Ten

_Shiver._

It wasn’t cold, not really. Not hot, either, just dusty. Yellow. Like the entire place was swallowed in a tub of curry powder. The light danced off the stained glass on the walls, even if it had been cracked, uncared for, for years. Every step you took inside, every time you brought one foot ahead of the other, you felt heavier, like maybe with the next step, you’d be tethered down for good; you wouldn’t be able to make it all the way.

But you had to. You _had to._

Right in the heart of the brick-walled church, you sunk to your knees, the dust scratching through the thick layer of your jeans. You lay the golden bowl in front of you, and arranged the small, fragrant candles around it. The first time you tried to roll and click your lighter, your finger slipped, and your breath hitched in the back of your throat. You’d gone through this in your head so many times the slightest mishap almost made it feel real.

Too real for you, too present.

You licked your lips and picked it up again, this time getting it right. You lit all five candles, the gentle breeze making the tiny flames join the light in its dance. It was quiet in there, too quiet, maybe, but you revelled in it. It might be the last time you got to do that, to just sit in silence, away from the voices - all of them, including the ones in your head.

Once your heart was back to its normal rhythm, you pushed your hood back. It had been quite a while since you came back with your cropped hair; it was now a couple of inches beyond your ears, enough to be tucked back, away from your face. You dug your hand in your pocket, got out the transparent, nylon packages of herbs and ingredients, and started popping them open.

God, why wouldn’t your hand just _stop shaking?_

You knew you had to do this. There was no other way. If there was a speck of hope, any hope, it was here, as ironic as it seemed. No matter what Sam said, no matter how much you wanted to just dig a hole somewhere and spend the rest of your days there. But even if you knew, even if it was objectively the right step to take, it still stung. It still hurt. It still made every muscle in your body shake, and lock, and _anticipate._

Maybe this time would be different. Maybe the plan would work.

The energy from the warding that tightened around the place tugged on your every sense, but you had to ignore it. After all, you were the one who put it there. You should know. There was no way out, not for you, not for _him._ The only way out was through, and you couldn’t go through if it wasn’t over, if it wasn’t done, and somehow - somehow that was good.

Somehow that was the relief you need it to start working.

Because no matter the outcome today, it had to be over. Everything. The way you hurt when you were sprung back in your body, the way nothing felt right anymore, your locked soul, your _mixed_ soul, your powers, the blood, the death, the pain, everything. At least - at least you had _that._ At least you could lean on _that._

You poured the ingredients in the bowl, and let them seep between the tips of your fingers as you mixed them. It wasn’t complex, nothing too sophisticated. Just a call, a direct call. After everything was in there, you got out the angel blade you’d had tucked in, and slit the inside of your palm, squeezing, letting the blood drip over the mixture. Before you could go any further, though, your phone vibrated in your pocket, and you almost jumped.

_Mom._

No. _No._ Why? Why now? Did she _know_ somehow? She couldn’t. And even if she could, she wouldn’t care, would she? She was probably calling about something else. A hunt, maybe. Or maybe she finally heard about what happened with Ketch. Maybe she finally wanted to cut any pretense between the two of you. Maybe she wasn’t calling as your mother, but as a hunter. Maybe you were next on her list.

Maybe. But you couldn’t be sure. You wouldn’t be.

You hung up on her, and switched your phone off, despite Sam’s voice echoing in your head to please _not._ You were barely held together as it was, you didn’t need this. You didn’t need any of this. Taking a deep breath, you got the piece of parchment paper you had ready, and lit it, watched as it swirled down to connect with the contents of the bowl.

This was it. Finally.

You knew the incantation by heart, and to your surprise, your voice didn’t waver. The ground beneath you shook, and you had to steady yourself to keep yourself from getting burned. You gripped the lighter in your good palm, and waited. One, two, three -

The shaking stopped, and with it, your breath.

You could feel him before you heard him, deep inside. He had this aura to him, this energy, that you could notice even _before_. An energy that, unlike the one you’d been feeling lately, ran cold. An energy that froze every last bit of your insides, that almost locked your thumb before it could roll the lighter one more time, and let it fall on the pattern drawn in holy oil, emphasizing the yellow in this entire place.

“Well, well, what do we have _here?_ ”

\--

**One week earlier**

“Come on, kid.”

You stabbed the lettuce with your fork, waving it a bit for Dean - _see? Eating._ Sam, next to him, sighed, flipping the book in front of him shut. “Okay, that’s enough.”

There was something about hearing your little brother trying to be assertive in a situation where no one really knew what the fuck they were doing that almost made you want to smile. Almost. You crossed your legs, shoving the fork into your mouth, staring back at him like a defiant child.

“We can’t keep going like this.”

“Like what?”

“ _You_ -” He gestured in your general direction, “Barely talking. And _you_ -” He turned to Dean.

“The hell did I do?”

“Stop treating her like a kid, maybe?”

“She won’t talk to us, Sam,” Dean said, like you were invisible, “She won’t eat a proper meal. She won’t even go out.”

“Look.” You cleared your throat. “You heard what Cas said. This is uncharted territory,” you said, “No one’s ever done it before, there’s no precedent, no _lore_ -”

“But he’s working on it.”

“Yeah, and?” You pulled your plate closer. “Even if he finds anything, what good does that do us? It’s not like we can undo it.”

Sam grimaced. “You don’t know that.”

You summoned your best impression of Castiel’s smooth, deep voice. “ _Trying to divide a soul could be nuclear, Sam._ ”

“It’s still not for sure,” Sam argued, “We’ve gone on less before. We always found a way.”

“There _is_ a way.”

“Yeah, _no_ ,” Dean said, “How many times do we have to say it?”

“I was already dead, Dean,” you said, “At least this time I’d be in heaven. Which is arguably better than the Cage, or _here_ , for that matter.” You paused. “Or I’d be in The Empty, which also sounds fucking great right about now.”

Sam’s fist clenched on the table. “You don’t deserve this.”

“You’re right, Sam; I don’t,” you said, “But a girl can dream.”

“I didn’t mean -”

“I know,” you said, “I’m just saying.”

His shoulders slumped. “You can still live with this,” he said, “If we find out what it is for sure, how to control it, it’s not that big a deal,” he said, “It’d be like another weapon, just something you can do.”

“Do you remember the Mark, like, _at all?”_ Dean asked.

“It’s not the same,” Sam said, “This is not some ancient curse.”

“You’re right, it’s a new one,” you said, “And what about Adam, huh? Is he just….”

“We don’t know if he’s fully aware of what’s happening,” Sam said. _Right._ “And even if he is...I don’t think - I know how it sounds, but I don’t think it’s that bad for him, really.”

You raised your eyebrows.

“I mean, it’s not hell,” he said, “Not heaven, but he’s not being tortured, or anything, right?”

“That’s a _low_ bar to set, Sam.”

“Yeah, well, I want my sister to live, _sue me_ ,” he grumbled, “Look, all of this is pointless when we don’t know how it works.”

“Great.” You ate another forkful of salad, “Back to square zero.”

“Not - not necessarily.”

Dean turned in his seat towards Sam. “You find anything?”

Sam swallowed. “I can’t be sure,” he said, “But what I saw, that day, what you did. I saw that somewhere before.”

Dean’s stare was as incredulous as his tone. “And you’re just telling us _now?_ ”

“I wasn’t sure, okay?” he said, “I had to do some research.”

“And?”

“ _And_ -” He dug through the pile of books in front of him and got out a box, with a tape. “I found it. An old experiment - you know, like the one with healing the demons? Yeah - this one’s a spell. They used it to kill a werewolf. Looked _exactly_ the same - same color, same way it spread, everything.”

“A werewolf?” you said, “So, not human.”

“No, not human,” he said, “But in their notes, they said it could work on anything or anyone with a _human-like_ biology.”

Were werewolves really _human-like?_ Maybe on a technical level, you supposed. “Okay, and?”

“ _And_ get this -” He flipped one of the books open. “It belongs to a - an entire cluster of spells.”

“Okay?”

“Spells that only experienced Men of Letters can cast, using rare ingredients.”

“I still don’t -”

“Spells that tap into a person’s _soul_ ,” he explained.

Dean frowned. “Like the time travel spell?”

“Exactly.”

You crossed your arms over your chest. “Okay…”

“So I called Cas, just now,” he said, “He said it could be possible. That with two souls inside your body you could somehow tap into that power without needing an explicit spell.”

“Oh.”

“That’s why I was thinking you could live with it,” Sam said, his eyes practically shining, “Sure, it could take a while to know the full scope of this, to get you used to it, so you’re in control. It doesn’t have to be bad.”

Dean shook his head. “Something doesn’t feel right,” he said, “Lucifer just doesn’t go around handing powers for nothing. He couldn’t have known he’d get out then.”

“Maybe he thought she’d be his ticket out.”

“What?”

Sam perked up in his chair. “Think about it,” he said, “If Cas is right, if dividing a soul is nuclear, then maybe he was hoping he could use it to break out of the Cage, or weaken it enough to send out a distress signal, or something.”

“So why would he want to break her out now, huh?” Dean asked, “He’s already out. Hell, if she’d stayed in, he could have an insurance policy, in case we throw him back in. No. No, something doesn’t add up.”

“So we ask Price.”

You snickered.

“I’m serious.”

“I’m sorry, _what?”_ you snapped, “Are you actually suggesting we go ask for the help of the British Men of Letters contact? When you know they’d put a bullet in all of us if they got the chance?”

“They had a chance to kill us. They didn’t,” he said, “And he’s not _their_ contact. He used to work for the Americans; they trained him. He doesn’t seem like the kind of person who’d pick a side.”

“That’s very...nationalist of you.”

“I’m just saying, he’s not that bad.”

“And how would you know?” Dean asked, “All we got on him is that file.”

“Yeah, uh.”

“Uh?”

“I sort of worked with him, a while back,” Sam said, “Cas and I.”

Dean switched his seat from the chair to the table. “ _When?_ ”

“When you had the Mark,” Sam explained, “We - we used him to contact Bobby, in heaven. Have him help us with something.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dean breathed, “Is there something you _didn’t_ do back then?”

“No,” Sam admitted, “And I’m not quitting this time, either.”

You tucked your hands in your pockets. “And I appreciate the sentiment,” you said, “But I’m not going anywhere near him. They’d see it coming.”

“We can take them.”

“Maybe that’s the problem at the moment.”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

“And if innocent people die?” you asked, “I get it, they’re evil reincarnated, but you don’t know what could happen, what I could do.”

“Dean and I can go,” Sam suggested, “We’ll bring him here. It’s not like they don’t know where the bunker is, anyway - we need to change the keys by the way. There’s a spell.”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Dean said, “So, what do you say?”

“Fine. But take Castiel.”

Dean scoffed.

“Between the two of you, you’ve been kidnapped 1.5 times on average in the past couple of months.”

“Come on -”

“One of those times, you got tasered -”

“It wasn’t a fair fight.”

“You’re right,” you said, “It isn’t. So take the angel. At least he can smite them on my behalf.”

\--

_**Claire N: hey you got a minute?** _

_You: sure sup_

_**Claire N: ...yeah ok. I’m great, you? On a hunt rn near Lebanon…** _

_You: r u dying?_

_**Claire N: no I’m good. Looks like a Casper. Should be easy.** _

_You: you got your iron rod? Salt rounds?_

_**Claire N: salt rounds???** _

_You: yeah it’s a winchester family recipe. Fill some shotgun shells with rock salt, should deter the spirit, slow down some demons even. Bonus: you won’t kill anyone if you miss_

_**Claire N: don’t have a shotgun but thx for the tip.** _

_You: just get 1_

_**Claire N: no permit, kinda hard, the 1 gun i have is stolen. Plus if jody sees it she will k i l l me** _

_You: want me to get sam to work on getting u armed_

_**Claire N: would he??** _

_You: idk but if he doesn’t i could_

_**Claire N: life saver** _

_You: take care claire_

_**Claire N: if u don’t want to tag along do u want to get some food or sth later** _

_You: arent u like 12_

_**Claire N: funny. Also gross, grandma. like friends. Bring ur ancient brothers too** _

_You: yeah sure why not, let me know when youre done if theyre back lets do this_

_**Claire N: cool** _

“I’m telling you, Sam. We should head to their base and just -” You couldn’t see what Dean was doing from your spot in the war room, but you had a pretty good idea.

“How did it go?” you asked.

Cas and Sam issued a collective sigh. “He’s dead.”

“ _What?”_

“They killed the psychic,” Cas said, “They made it look like an accident, but the message was clear.”

“Yeah, I bet,” you said, “The only lead they gave us is dead.”

“No,” the angel said, “A literal message.”

You blinked.

Sam set his things on the floor near the stairs. “Yeah,” he said, “They left a note at his house.”

“ _Fuck._ ”

“Fuck is right,” Dean grumbled, “It said, _we don’t like loose ends_ and had the Men of Letters crest thing on it.”

“So now what?”

“Now we call Mary,” Castiel said. “We have to.”

“ _Seriously?”_

“It’s the right thing to do,” Sam conceded, “There’s no telling if she’s safe with them.”

“She’s fine.”

Everyone turned to Dean. He shrugged, gaze fixed on his feet. “We’ve been texting. Every once in a while. I told her.”

“You _told her?”_ you said, “Dean -”

“Not _everything_ ,” he said, “Just that they’re after us, and that she should be careful. She said she’s got it, and not to worry about them.”

“Tell that to the dead psychic.”

“It wasn’t _her._ ”

“And how do you know?”

“I just _know,_ okay?” he said, “Now can we move on?”

You might’ve still been sour about this, but you weren’t about to go on breaking Dean’s hope in Mary again. You couldn’t bear what you knew it would do to him, so you shrugged, got back to the spells you’d been studying, and let it go. Soon enough, everyone dispersed to their rooms, even Cas. It was later, after they’d showered, after Dean had grabbed his liquor, that everyone gathered in the kitchen while you microwaved some leftover pizza.

The exhaustion was evident on all of their features, even the celestial being that didn’t tire. It was only then that you noticed how _old_ they were. How done. Even after all of these years of hunting, when someone hit close to home, it still took a toll on them. They were better than you, in that regard. You would’ve given up trying after a while, you knew. You wouldn’t have cared as much.

But again, they were _them_ and you were _you._ You could never live up to their standards.

You thought, again, for one more time, to quit. To leave. But Bobby’s words echoed in your bones; if he was here, he would’ve been crushed. Again. And you couldn’t do that, not even to his memory. If nothing, then out of respect for him, for the family he created for you, all of you. You held onto your glass, swinging the whiskey around before you finally decided to talk.

“There’s something I want to try.”

Dean side-eyed you. “Can we try whatever it is tomorrow?”

“Yeah, no, it wouldn’t be right now,” you said, “There’d have to be...preparations, and I’d have to get some ingredients I’m not sure are here…”

Sam frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m done hiding.”

Dean slid in his chair. “We are _not_ going after the Brits. Not right now. Maybe later.”

“No, not the Brits.”

Everyone was silent for a moment, before it hit Sam. “ _No._ ”

“What?” Dean asked.

“Lucifer.”

Cas and Dean said nothing. You gulped down the rest of your drink. “Look, Sam -”

“No. I am calling a veto on this,” he said, “You’re not using yourself as bait.”

“I’m not. That’s not what I want to do.”

“You’re not hunting him, either.”

“Sam -”

“No, Y/N. Fuck no.”

“Sam,” Dean said, his tone soft, “Listen to her.”

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Sam all but growled, “You _know_ why.”

“Sam, please,” you said, “It’s not a big deal. Plus, I won’t be hunting him. That would take too long,” you said, “And we’d probably need that demon’s help. No, thank you.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Castiel asked.

“I summon him. Wherever he is, whatever he’s doing,” you said, “Even if he’s in heaven…”

“If he’s imprisoned in heaven,” Castiel said, “Or back in the Cage, there would be no way to summon him.”

“Someone summoned him out of the Cage.” All of them exchanged silent glances that you elected to ignore. “But, yeah, fine, if he doesn’t show up, then we know he’s locked up somewhere, and we can relax for a while. Take our time.”

“And if he’s not, he gets you.”

“Not if I’m careful,” you said, “I could trap him. I’ve been looking up some spells, and wardings. I was thinking if I could reverse one of those I could lock him _in_ , like we’re warding everywhere else but where he is, you know?”

“None of this is proven to work against archangels and you _know it_ ,” Sam said.

“Little is proven to work against archangels, but we still try, right?” you said, “And maybe with some help from Cas, I could put this hybrid soul thing to use.”

“I - I’m not sure if I can help.”

“We’ll try, is all I’m saying,” you said, “And if it doesn’t work, we go the old fashioned way. Tell the demons where I am.”

“It’s a _suicide mission_.”

“It’s not,” you said, “If anything, I’m doing it because I want to live. He’s the only one who actually has answers. You know there are easier and quicker ways to kill myself than facing off the devil himself, right?”

Dean flinched, but stayed silent. Sam, on the other hand, was absolutely _done._ “There’s no way in hell you’re doing it.”

“Sam.”

“I can’t believe you’re not backing me up on this, Dean.”

“If it were me -”

“Would _you_ have summoned Alastair? Would you summon him today?”

Dean poured himself another shot. “No,” he admitted, “But she’s up for it. And you know we have jack shit. Least we could do is have her back.”

“If you don’t want to, that’s fine,” you said.

Sam scrunched his face. “What?”

“If you don’t want to have my back on this, it’s fine. If you do, great. Thank you.” You set your glass down. “But I’m not actually asking for your permission, you know that, right?”

\--

**Present day**

Your whole body was on _fire._

It wasn’t even his voice, looming in your ears. It wasn’t the holy oil, either. It was the spell; you’d found a spell that was meant to tap into a regular person’s soul, meant to use its energy as a trap for an angel. You didn’t have the time, or the guts, to try to do it all on your own, so you used the actual spell. It wasn’t supposed to hurt, not according to their notes, but you guessed you were the untested edge case.

On the up side, the entire place _lit._ The fire, the trap meant to hold you, and the trap meant to hold Lucifer, all together, mixing with the colors of the glass. You heaved, pulling yourself up, fists clenched, standing in front of him. You didn’t recognize the vessel, but the bishop attire was a bit too ironic, even for _him._ He smiled, and that - _that_ you recognized.

“I didn’t think those rugrats would actually pull it off. I have to say, _good job_. And your old meat suit, too? _Perfect._ ”

You’d prepared a speech.

You were meant to say something snarky about the way he looked, the way he didn’t have as much power up here as he did in the Cage, about how you knew his vessel was probably rotting as you spoke. You were meant to sneer, to loom, to hold your chin up high. To play with the angel blade in your hand, even if you knew it couldn’t really harm him.

You were meant to have the upper hand.

But your body didn’t cooperate. Couldn’t cooperate. Your limbs were cold, your vision fixed on his vessel, on his movements, on his voice. Not the same voice you remembered, oh no. Not at all. But the tone. The words. The power that radiated off of him. The way he looked at you, walked towards you, snickered at the traps you’d made.

“I’m impressed,” he said, “You got someone to tailor the meatsuit for you. You wouldn’t be standing right now if you didn’t. Terrible side effect.”

The heat, the pressure, the _pain_ was a fingertip away. You could feel it. Every cell in you anticipated it. And the more you thought about it, the brighter the room lit, and the wider he grinned.

“Cat got your tongue?”

The best you could do was square your shoulders, put one hand in front of the other, legs parallel to your shoulders. John Winchester’s perfect stance. He narrowed his eyes at you, circling you, his finger tracing close to your shoulder, but never really touching it.

“You know better than to ignore me.”

Think. Focus. Sam and Dean are outside. Castiel couldn’t be, not too close to the spell, but they were. They were watching. Sam said you couldn’t do it. You had to prove him wrong. You _had to._ “What did you do to me?”

“She _speaks_ ,” he said, “I didn’t do much, really. I was interrupted, you know.”

“ _What did you do to me?”_

“I _helped you_ ,” he said, “You were so sad in there, so _pathetic._ All the time, all you had in your head, over and over, was how you would’ve stood longer if you still had your powers, if you could just fight back, so, I gave you a fighting chance! If you ask me, that was pretty awesome of me. Some of my best work.”

“ _What. Did you. Do to me?_ ”

He sighed, rolling his eyes. “Don’t you remember? You were _there._ ”

“No. No - I don’t -”

“Right,” he said, “Let me guess, things are a bit fuzzy? A bit patchy here and there?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

“That’s fixable,” he said, “Whoever’s fixed up your body for you is a bit of an amateur.” He sniffed close to your neck, and you kept your stance. “Ugh, witches.”

“ _Listen_ ,” you said, “This trap? Neither of us is getting out of here without getting torn apart, but you already know that, don’t you?”

He held back his smile. But that was a tactic, it had to be; you’d studied the magic. You knew it inside and out. “Sure. We’ll stick with that. So what do you want? You want me to undo it? Because there’s no undoing this, you know that, right? You can’t just _unfuse_ souls. That’s not how Daddy Dearest designed them.”

“You’re _lying_.”

He shrugged. “Believe what you want,” he said, “But why would you want to undo it anyway? You and me,” he started, “We can have it all, together. All I have to do is go all the way.”

“No, _thanks._ ”

“Is that so?” he said, “Okay. Sure. I can deal with that. You think Lilith was excited about turning at first? Ramiel? Azazel? No. I get it. It’s a big change. But _you_. You can be _so much more_. All of them, they were just, in the end, one twisted soul. Imagine what you could do with _two._ ”

No. _No._

All you had to do, the only thing you had to do, was turn around, and run. It would probably hurt, more than it already did. It would probably last longer than you’d hope it would. But it had to be done. You couldn’t - Lilith, Azazel - they destroyed your family, and they almost got the entire fucking planet with it. You couldn’t. You _wouldn’t._ You gathered every bit of strength you had, and ran.

It lasted a split second.

Lucifer dragged you back, your feet screeching against the ground, and snatched the angel blade from you. “You think it would be _that_ easy?”

“Get the _fuck_ away from her!”

Sam must’ve snuck in sometime in the last minute, because the sound was right behind you, both of you. Lucifer turned both of you, your body still in his grip. “Oh, _Sammy_. It’s so good to see you again.” But Sam was busy almost finishing the angel banishing sigil. Lucifer’s thinking was fast; he held the blade to your chest, straight over your heart. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Sam glanced at you, and you nodded. Do it. He wouldn’t. Even if he would, you thought, it was for the best. He lifted his palm to press it, but before he did, before you felt the heat banish Lucifer away, before you were free, he dug it in.

He dug it in, and you felt it stick out of your back.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Sam pushed the wall with his bleeding hand and _sprinted._

His sister’s knees bent a little, her lips parted, her hands gripping the angel blade plunged in her chest. He jumped over the pattern of holy fire that dimmed the moment Lucifer stabbed her, and caught her just before her body hit the ground. Her wound wasn’t bleeding, it was _pouring_ , and every muscle in his body trembled.

“Y/N! _Y/N!”_ He held her back with one hand, careful not to move the blade, his other hand on her cheek - _Look at me._ “Y/N. Hey. Hey, you’re okay. Stay still - just - just stay with me, okay? We’ll - we’ll fix this - _DEAN!”_

Dean’s footsteps registered somewhere in Sam’s mind, but his entire focus was on her face. She was trying so hard to breathe, her fingers shaking around the heavenly metal and cold, _so cold._ “Sa - Sam - It…”

Sam shushed her. “It’s okay, it’s okay, don’t talk if it hurts,” he said, “We’ll - we’ll stop the bleeding first, okay? And then - and then we’ll get you to a hospital. And - and Cas is just a few minutes away - he can - he can just -”

She closed her eyes. “N-no.”

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you _dare,”_ he said, the back of his eye burning, “You’re not gonna die today, Y/N. You’re _not_ , you hear me?”

“No,” she breathed, clearer this time. She moved her left hand to his shirt and held onto it. “No.”

It was so peaceful, so resolved, that he couldn’t fight his tears anymore. He only agreed to this whole thing because he knew Dean was right; she was going to do it anyway. That was her move. The one consistent thing about her. No one could stop her, not him, not Dean, not anyone. But he didn’t think this could happen - anything, _anything_ but this.

He couldn’t lose her again. He’d break.

“No, you don’t get to do this, you hear me?” he said, his voice a notch above a whisper, caressing her warm cheek, “You don’t get to die on me. Not again. Dean - help me get her to the car.” But Dean’s boots were firmly glued to the ground. “Dean, get your head out of your ass and help me, dammit!”

“Sammy.”

It was as resolved, as final, as her _No._ Sam looked up to his brother, eyes wide, hands still gripping her form. Her form that was getting heavier by the second. “I will never forgive you,” he said, “if you don’t get the _fuck_ into the car and drive us to Cas _right this second._ ”

She tugged on his shirt, her lower lip quivering, and quickly losing color. He could feel her blood seep through her clothes and his, and her knee give in next to them, on the floor. He held on tighter, his hand swooping under her knee and lifting her up. The hand under her knee was still bleeding, from the angel banishing sigil earlier, and it stung, but not harder than Dean’s unwavering stance. Not harder than his brother’s tear-stricken face, shaking from side to side, “I can’t,” he said, “She - she made me promise.”

“Fuck you. _Fuck you_ ,” Sam said, pushing past him, towards the door. “Hey, Y/N? Hold on, okay? Just - just a little longer. It’s gonna be okay,” he said, “You’re gonna be okay. We’ll get you through this. I’ll get you through this, I promise, okay?”

But she didn’t say anything.

“Just - just - stay with me,” he said, opening the unlocked door of the Impala, “I will fix this. I’ll make it all better, okay?” he said, “You - you’re strong, and you’re - you’re so, so good, you know that, right?” He knelt down to lay her on the backseat. “And I love you - we love you - _so much,_ you hear me? It’s gonna be fine. It’s gonna be okay.”

Her grip on his shirt faltered.

“I know it’s hard right now,” he said, “I know - I know staying awake is hard. You’ve lost a lot of blood, but you can come back from this.” He put her on her side, so the blade wouldn’t tear through anything else. “Cas’ll know what to do.”

He closed the door, and slid out his phone, pouring every bit of his energy into dialing Cas’ number. “Sam. Stop.”

“I swear to God if you don’t shut up right now,” he grumbled. On the other side of the line, Cas picked up. “Hey, where are you right now?”

“Still at the bunker,” his friend said, “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Meet us halfway at - at the Sunshine Motel,” Sam said, digging into his pockets for the car’s spare keys. “It’s Y/N, she’s been stabbed. We’ll be there in ten minutes, tops. Be there.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Sam.”

“If you don’t wanna tag along, Dean, that’s fine,” Sam said, “I’ll deal with you later.”

“ _Sam_.”

Grimacing, Sam turned to his brother. “ _What?”_

Dean’s fingers were pressed to Y/N’s neck, his face down, his shoulders slumped. “It’s no use,” he said, “She’s gone.”

\--

Cas confirmed it.

He said that even though he couldn’t sense her soul, or Adam’s, her body showed no sign of life. He tried to heal her wound. He tried to get her cells to regenerate enough to at least make it so she didn’t have a gaping hole in her chest, but her body didn’t respond, not even in a way a dead body would; she was too far gone, and even her body, Castiel gathered, were damaged beyond repair. By the blade, or by something Lucifer caused, he wasn’t sure, but there was nothing he could do.

The words barely registered in Sam’s head. He just sat there, on the motel bed, next to his sister’s dead body, frozen. She was gone. Again. He’d lost her, _again_ , while he watched. He stood back while the devil stabbed his sister to death, and did nothing to stop it. He should’ve pressed on her wound, should’ve made sure she didn’t bleed out, should’ve been ready with a spell, or should’ve just used the same ingredients she used to summon Lucifer to summon Castiel. He could’ve done that, but he didn’t think of it.

Instead, he let her die. Just like that.

He’d seen Dean die before, more times than he could count. He’d seen his friends die. He’d seen Bobby die. He’d seen her jump into the Cage. But this time, this one time, he couldn’t take it. She couldn’t be really gone, just like that. She couldn’t have survived all of this, she couldn’t have had all of this power inside her and yet die, so easily, so quickly.

She couldn’t be gone. This had to be some sort of a trick. Maybe Lucifer took her with him, and only left back a distraction, something like the creations of Gabriel, to keep them off his track. He kept talking to her, about how much work he’d put into her, about her being valuable to him. It made no sense that he’d just kill her. He wouldn’t go through all of this trouble just to kill her.

It had to be a trick.

Lucifer was skilled, but not skilled enough to know everything there was to know about her body. All he’d have to go on and create a trick would be her DNA, right? Tattoos weren’t part of her DNA, and he’d seen some of hers after she came back. He angled himself in the bed, and slid her shirt up a little.

“What are you doing?”

He held up a finger to shut Dean up, and rolled the shirt up a little higher. But it was there. Even the colors were faded, just like they’d always been. It was _there._ How would Lucifer know? How could he create something so elaborate in a blink of an eye?

“I think I know,” Cas said, “Sam. I’m sorry. I am,” he said, “But it’s her.”

“It can’t be,” Sam said, “It can’t be her. He _needs_ her.”

“Apparently,” Cas said, “Not enough.”

Sam sunk into the mattress, hands in his hair. “No,” he said, “You didn’t hear him.”

Dean sighed, frustrated. “It was a spur of the moment thing. It just happened.” He took a deep breath. “Maybe - maybe it was so no one else could have her. I dunno. We should get out of here, before someone calls the cops on us, what with all the blood in the hallway.”

“And then what?”

“And then we take her back to the bunker. Get her cleaned up. Give her the funeral she never got.”

“You’re not gonna even _try?”_

“Try what, exactly?”

“To - to bring her back! To - to do something - call Crowley, maybe, or Rowena -”

“No, Sam,” Dean said, “I told you, I can’t. I can’t. I wish I could, but - I promised her. I promised her we’d let go.”

Sam stood up, feet away from his brother. “Since when do you give a fuck about keeping your promises?”

“I owe her this,” Dean said, breaking eye contact. “I owe her this, dammit. After everything - it was the _one thing_ she asked.”

“So you’re gonna let her die. Like you let her jump in the Cage, in _my place_ ,” he said, “Like you let her get possessed for an entire fucking _year_. Like when you almost got her killed trying to detox her of the demon blood.” Cas took a step towards them, but said nothing. “Like _that_ , huh?”

“Screw you, Sam,” Dean mumbled, “Screw you. You’re not the only one who lost her. You weren’t the only one _then_ , and you’re not the only one now.”

“No, you’re right, I’m not,” Sam said, “But you’d rather _lose her_ than deal with her. _Help her_.”

Dean’s fist clenched, his teeth gritting, his eyes _flaming_ , but he kept whatever he was going to say to himself.

“She was right,” Sam breathed, “This whole time. I thought she was - I thought when she said things, back then, _before,_ that we didn’t care about her, that she was a burden to everyone, I thought she just - that she didn’t _see_ , that she was hurting, and didn’t know how else to explain things,” he said, “You. You’re _just_ like Dad.”

“That’s _low._ ”

“It’s true.”

“No, _fuck you_ , Sam, it’s not,” he said, “You keep talking about how _you’re_ ready, how _you’re_ okay with dying. You keep getting _pissed_ every time I save you because you were _so ready_ , so guess what, I _listened_ , you asshole. She was _suffering_ here, every day just a little bit more, and you know what it reminded me of? _Me._ Me. And I can’t - I can’t be the reason she stays even if she doesn’t want to.”

“She didn’t _have to die_ ,” Sam yelled, “We _talked about this._ We could’ve helped her, and you know it. Just because _you_ can’t stop killing doesn’t mean _she_ wouldn’t have. She could’ve gotten _out_ , do you get that? She didn’t have to die to _get better_.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, “But she _did_ , so _now what?_ Cut a deal, you were saying? Give Crowley your _soul_?” he asked, “So she ends up _here_ , and she finds you dead, or soon to be,” he said, “And then _you_ go to hell, and she has to live with that.”

“ _Now_ you give a shit about that?”

“She’s better off now,” Dean said, “Like it or not. Adam, too, probably.”

“We’re not burning her body.”

“Are you fucking kidding me with this now?” Dean said, “We have to. You know why.”

“We’re not burning her body until I say we can.”

“ _Sam -”_

“You’re on thin fucking ice as it is already,” Sam said, his voice low, “Don’t make me do something I’ll regret later.”

“Dean,” Cas spoke, “It’s alright. If something happens, we’ll deal with it then. We can wait.”

“So what?” Dean said, “We’re just gonna stick her in a room until you can deal with your issues?”

“We can bury her,” Sam said, “Then if we need to - if -” He licked his lips. “We can always go back.”

“So she dies like a hunter, and we bury her, like it meant nothing, like it was nothing,” Dean said, “And what about Mom, huh? Don’t you think she gets a say in this? We haven’t even _called her_ yet.”

It felt wrong. Out of place, Sam knew. He wouldn’t want this for himself. Dean wouldn’t want this for himself. She’d want to go like a hunter, she’d want that to be honored. At least, she deserved it to be. But he still - he couldn’t just let it slide that easily, no. After all this time, after everything, Lucifer doesn’t get to do this to her. He doesn’t get to take everything from her, the way he tried to take everything from him. The way he _did_ take everything from him.

“At least - at least give me a day,” Sam said, “One day is all I’m asking. Then - then we can see about giving her a hunter’s funeral.”

\--

Mary was there in a few hours.

By then, they’d put Y/N in her room, and locked it, for no reason other than it seemed more respectful. Sam changed out of his blood-soaked clothes, but couldn’t bring himself to wash them just yet. The three of them sat in the war room, but no one uttered a word. Even Dean didn’t hit the liquor. They just sat there. Staring at their own hands. Staring at each other. The silence was too much, at times, but Sam thought it felt deserved.

Dean hadn’t told her on the phone why they needed her to come down, but she knew enough to know that it was about Y/N. She thought there was a fight, apparently, and came down expecting to calm Dean down, or talk Y/N out of something; she was rolling her eyes all the way down the stairs of the bunker, after Cas let her in, telling him how she couldn’t believe that well into their thirties her Dean and Y/N were still having fights that needed an intervention.

It wasn’t until she saw her boys’ faces that she realized.

“How?” she asked, “ _When?”_

Dean buried his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Earlier today,” he said, “Lucifer killed her.”

“No,” she breathed, “ _No._ ”

Sam wasn’t used to this. He wasn’t used to having so many people around when he - when something like this happened. It was too much, too soon. He heard his mother’s tears, and he couldn’t take it anymore. He had to go - go be on his own somewhere. Away from this. Just for one goddamn second.

But then she said, “But they promised. They _promised_ she wouldn’t be harmed. They promised they’d protect her.”

“They _who_?” Sam asked, “Mom?”

She sniffed, rubbing her tears with her sleeve. “The Brits,” she said, “I - When they first found me,” she said, “They told me about - about how she died, the first time.” Her voice quivered. “And they said that the devil did something to her, that he wanted her, and that they could protect her, if I helped them.”

Dean took a step back. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

“I tried,” she admitted, “When I met her the other day, but I couldn’t - she was too angry, too hurt. I thought I was protecting her, by not telling her,” she said, “Because they told me, they told me she had no idea, and I thought that maybe -” A tear rolled down her cheek. “Maybe I could protect her.”

“But they _tortured_ me,” Sam said, “They - how could you trust them? How could you believe them? _They_ wanted her, too, you know that, right? They almost got her, too, if it wasn’t for sheer fucking luck.”

Mary looked between him and Dean, as if to confirm. Dean nodded. “They had her thinking she was running errands for them, but the hunts weren’t real, at least one of them wasn’t,” he said, “And the last one, they had a trap set out for her. They wanted to trap her.”

“Yeah, to cure her.”

“Give me a fucking break.”

“They said they had a cure!” Mary argued, “They said they could solve it!”

“Well, they fucking lied,” Dean said, “My guess is they wanted to use her as a weapon, or a bargaining chip. But you know what? Doesn’t matter now. Because she’s gone, for good this time.” Dean took another step back. “And she died thinking you didn’t give a shit about her, so there’s that.”

“Dean.”

“What?” He turned to Sam. “You gonna give me shit about doing _exactly_ what she wanted then shy back now? Screw you. And screw _this._ I’m outta here.” He grabbed his jacket and keys. “I’ll be back tomorrow. For the funeral. And I swear to God, Sam, if you do anything stupid I will kill you _myself.”_

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Mary asked, “Both of you!”

Sam crossed his arms over his chest. Dean looked at his feet. Cas was probably blending into the background somewhere.

“Your sister just _died_ ,” she said, “And you’re _fighting_? Really? Were you raised by a pack of wolves? Do you have any respect _at all?”_

“Mom -”

“What have you done to prepare for the funeral?” she asked, “Did you call the people who knew her? Did you get her cleaned up? Did you make sure she wasn’t helping some other hunter out when this happened? Did you see if she had any belongings she’d want passed down a certain way?”

“No.”

“I didn’t _hear you_.”

“No,” Dean spoke, louder this time, “Not yet.”

“So what are you waiting for?”

Dean cleared his throat. “Nothing. We’ll get right to it. Right, Sam?”

“Dean -”

“We’ll do it, Sam. All of it. It’s the right thing to do,” Dean said, “And if - if whatever you have in mind works out, then that’s a happy ending for everyone. I don’t think she knows anyone other than Jody anyway.”

Right then, Sam’s phone rang in his pocket. He wasn’t planning on picking up, but then he saw the name - Claire. “Hey, Claire,” he said, and put her on speaker, “Is everything alright?”

“Uh, yeah?” Claire said, “I’m done with the hunt, thought I’d see you guys, but your sister’s phone’s off.”

“You’re in Kansas?”

“Seriously,” she said, “Speak to each other. Yes. There was a salt-and-burn, and I took care of it. Are you guys on a hunt somewhere else? You sound awful.”

“No. We’re home.”

“Dude, seriously, what’s up? You sound super weird.”

“I - I don’t know how to tell you this.”

“Tell me what?”

“You’re friends, right? With Y/N?”

“Okay you’re starting to freak me out here. What’s wrong?”

“She -” He looked at his brother, who was clutching to his jacket like it was going to escape, and felt his lip quiver. “She passed away this morning.”

The line went silent for a few seconds.

“Holy shit,” she said, “Holy _shit._ Are you guys okay? Stupid question. Send me the coordinates to your place. You’re having a funeral, right?”

“You don’t have to -”

“Should I call Jody, too? Or will you?”

Dean, at this point, was halfway up the stairs, his face the same color as his maroon shirt. Sam rubbed his eyes, clearing his throat one more time. “Could you?” he asked, “Please?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, “No problem. Anything else I can do?”

“No,” Sam said, “Thank you.”

\--

The day passed.

Crowley wouldn’t deal, not for anything in the bunker, or even Sam’s soul. And Cas couldn’t find out for sure if she was in the veil or not; Billie was less than happy to be contacted by anyone from the Winchester side at all. He couldn’t confirm she was in heaven, either; apparently, he was told he was being too involved, too curious. That the matter of souls was private, and that they let it slide when he asked about Jimmy’s whereabouts because he was his vessel, and it was a unique situation, but this they couldn’t help with.

Jody, Alex, and Claire showed up, all hugs and no blame. When they asked what happened, Dean told them it was a hunt gone bad. They’d agreed they were going to stick with this, so no one got involved, directly or indirectly, with this whole mess.

All of them, everyone she knew from her brief time after she came back, gathered the wood, and the ropes, for the cremation, and set it up. Sam, at this point, was too numb, too shaken down, to feel any relief from Jody’s presence, or the kind words they all had to say about Y/N’s contact with them, but there was nothing else to do except _this._ And no matter what he thought he could do, nothing worked.

It was over. She was gone. Just like that.

The last step was to wrap her body properly, and get her on the wood. He couldn’t do it himself; the time he went in to cover her face, it was a punch to the gut, and if Mary wasn’t there, waiting outside, watching him - if she didn’t go in and hold him, while he sat on the ground, sobbing, he didn’t know how he’d be standing right now. Dean volunteered to do it, thankfully, so he didn’t even have to articulate _why_ he couldn’t.

Moments later, he heard Dean come out, and he held his breath. But his brother wasn’t as silent as he’d expected him to be. “She’s gone.”

“Kind of why we’re here.”

“No, smartass,” Dean said, his tone unreadable, “Her body’s not in there. It fucking vanished.”

“ _What?”_

“She’s _gone._ ”

 


	12. Chapter Twelve

You ran.

The trees around you glistened as you rushed past them, the ground beneath you _crunch_ ing with every step. You weren’t sure what from, or why, you were running, but you had enough adrenaline in your system to tell you that you had a good reason, even if it wasn’t clear to you at this exact moment. Right outside the forest was a road - four lanes, not too huge - but you might as well have been in the middle of nowhere. No signs, no cars rushing by, nothing but the yellow sun and a stretch of asphalt.

Asphalt that started to collapse under your feet.

You jumped away from the hole that started forming, only to start another one somewhere else, and at this point, you thought, hey, maybe it was _you_ , but how you made the road crumble with your mere weight was beyond you, and then there was the ringing, and the sun glowed bright - so _bright_ \- and you had to shield your eyes, your ears -

“ _There_ we go,” someone said, “Welcome back.”

It took a few blinks, and a hand on your shoulder, to bring your heartbeat, and the beeping that aligned with it, down. Four doctors, two of them basically fledglings, another taking notes like her life depended on it, and the one who’d spoken a minute earlier. There were a couple of nurses, too, making sure all the tubes and all the machines were in place, that you were settled in your bed, even if you were sitting up, knee and arm in a defensive position, like someone had just zapped you out of a fight and into a hospital in a second.

“What the fuck?”

One of the fledglings snickered. Then the one in charge said, “Hello.” He raised his hand in a small wave. “I’m Dr. Burton. You’re in Michigan Medicine. You just woke up from a coma that lasted exactly four months and three days. What’s your name?”

Michigan Medicine. The fuck were you doing in Michigan? The last thing you remembered that wasn’t, apparently, a coma dream, or whatever they were called, was the standoff with Lucifer. Getting stabbed. Sam being there. Sam begging you to stay, to fight, but it was over, in your head, and, as it felt, your body. Calling out for Sam, but not hearing anything. Calling again, and again, but the void ate your words. If you’d passed out, and Sam took you to a hospital, why would it be a fourteen hour drive away?

What the _fuck?_

“Do you remember your name?”

But _four months._ Maybe you were somewhere in Kansas, then had to be transferred, or something of the like. The paperwork you’d been working on for your insurance was nowhere near done, though, as far as you remembered, so you couldn’t be sure which name your brothers would give you, except it was a rule to always use your first names. “Y/N.”

The doctor nodded, giving the tablet to the one taking the notes. She proceeded to write your name, you assumed. “Okay, that’s good. That’s a start. Do you remember your last name?”

You sighed. “Yeah, I do,” you said, “I’m fine. Can you call one of my brothers now?”

Note Girl’s head perked up. “You didn’t have any identifying documents on you when you were admitted. We notified the police,” she said, “But there were no missing persons reports, or anything that fit your description. It says so on your record.”

Did they just leave you in front of the ER, or something? You couldn’t have been properly transferred without any documentation, could you? And, what, no one visited you for four months? Or maybe they did it unnoticed. Still weird though.

“If you could give us more information,” Dr. Burton said, “We’ll call your family right away.”

“I’m fine.”

“This is actually our next topic,” he said, “You see, you’ve gained a bit of a reputation here -”

“Miracle Girl,” Fledgling #2 said, “We call you Miracle Girl.”

Dr. Burton sighed. “The correct medical term would be - well,” he said, “Miracle Girl sounds about right, if I’m being honest. When we found you, you had severe injuries to your chest, and your heart, but by the time we’d prepped you for surgery, your wounds were actually improving, on their own,” he said, “They seemed to have a regenerative ability to them. Not enough to heal you all the way, of course, we still had to surgically intervene,” he explained, “But within a couple of months, your wounds had completely healed, like nothing had ever happened, not even the surgery,” he said, “It’s - quite breathtaking, actually.”

But, _how?_ Why? Angel blade to the heart pretty much trumped all, at least in your case. And if Castiel had healed you, why would you need a hospital at all? Let alone one in _Michigan._ Something didn’t add up. “You said it took a couple of months,” you began, “But I’ve been in a coma for four?”

He nodded. “We don’t always know why a body chooses to enter a coma, or whether it would come out of it,” he said, “But we had hope for you.”

But it didn’t _fit._ Besides, if it had been four months, why was it snowing outside? How could it _still_ be winter? “Hey, what’s today’s date?”

“It’s December 2nd,” Fledgling #1 answered. At your face, he continued. “2010.”

“Funny.”

But no one was smiling, or laughing. If anything, Dr. Burton looked slightly concerned. “When was the last thing you remember?”

“Two…” you trailed off. You needed to get out of here, you figured, and you weren’t going to earn yourself any release points if you started to tell them you were from the future. “Uh. I - how did I get here, again?”

“Tell you what,” Dr. Burton said, “Let’s get some tests running, and someone will come here, and answer all of your questions, alright?”

You nodded.

“Now, how are you feeling? Any headaches, pain of any kind? Do you…”

\--

The nurse was kinder.

Cohen, he said his name was. Cohen made sure everything was running smoothly, according to the doctor’s instructions. That you were getting a little monitored movement, since there was, apparently, nothing wrong with your body - nothing they could detect anyway. He also brought over some newspapers, from the last few months, so you were “caught up.” It helped, a little - at least, it helped you confirm that you were, in fact, six years into the past. Only a few months after the almost-apocalypse.

Which meant that Dean was in Battle Creek, _Michigan_ , with Lisa and Ben, and Sam was teaching in a community college also within the same area. Coincidence? Yeah, right.

“I could get you someone, a professional,” the nurse said, “For your hair. If you want.”

You frowned, releasing your hair from the ponytail, and he handed you a small mirror. Oh. Wow. Okay. Your hair grew past your shoulders, somehow. Four months could _not_ do that on their own. “This can...wait…” You flipped the mirror on its face. “Do you know how I got here?” you asked, “Everyone just keeps referring me to someone else, and I’m supposed to hear from someone from _legal_ , apparently - it’s kind of freaking me out.”

He smiled. “I understand,” he said, “But I’m not sure I can say anything.”

“Please?” you said, “I just wanna know what happened to me,” you said, “I’m not gonna tell anyone you said anything, I promise.”

He grimaced. “You were my first patient here, you know?”

“Really?”

“No,” he said, “But it would’ve been pretty poetic if you were, don’t you think?”

You rolled your eyes.

“Seriously, though,” he said, “I could get into a lot of trouble if I told you.”

“Is it malpractice?” you asked, “Is anyone afraid I’d, like, sue the hospital? Because I won’t, trust me,” you said, “I just wanna know what’s wrong with me, so I can get out of here.”

“You can’t leave until the doctor clears you.”

“Technically,” you said, “Come _on_. I have no money, no insurance, no one waiting for me,” you said, “I’m not gonna sue. I just want to put two and two together.”

He narrowed his eyes at you.

“I’ll give you anything you want.”

“You know how that sounds, right?”

“Yeah. Dream on.” You sighed. “I _swear_ I won’t tell anyone.”

He looked over his shoulder, and drew the curtains, closed the door. “Okay,” he said, “But only if you answer some of my questions first.”

You raised an eyebrow at him.

“There may or may not be a few bets floating around.”

“ _Fine._ One for one - I answer one, and I get an answer from you.”

He extended his hand. “Deal.”

“Deal.”

“What do you do?”

“I, uh, work at a gun store. Or I used to.”

“And before that?”

“Na-uh,” you said, “My turn. How did I get here?”

“Nobody knows, not really,” he said, “We found you in our psych ward. Were you ever in the army?”

“No. Was I _admitted_ to your psych ward?”

“No, we found you in another patient’s room, unconscious,” he said, “How did you get your scars, then?”

“Rude.”

“Answer for an answer.”

“I can’t tell you. Was there no camera footage of me getting in there? Psych ward must be pretty tight.”

He shook his head. “None. We had a hospital-wide glitch at the time. Part of the reason we called the police.”

“Part of?”

“The other reason,” he said, “Being the hole in your chest.”

“Oh.”

“What’s the language of that tattoo you have?”

“Enochian. Language of angels,” you said, “What did that patient say? The one whose room I popped in?”

He shrugged. “As far as I know, he was pretty out of it,” he said, “I don’t know his official diagnosis, but from what I understand, it was a lot of nonsense. Didn’t really help much.”

Bingo.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine,” you said, “Or thirty, now, I guess. Is that patient still here?”

“I’d have to check,” he said, “But I think he is. I would’ve heard something if he was getting released. That other tattoo you have, the black one, with the star and the flames, what does it mean?”

“It’s for protection,” you said, “Silly thing. Kind of a family tattoo. Can you take me to see him?”

“Maybe. How did you get stabbed? It wasn’t a knife. Much thinner.”

“A sword.”

“Wait, really?”

“ _Will_ you take me to see that patient?”

“Will you tell everyone you’re a twenty-seven year old veteran, and that your tattoo is actually the one from Carver Edlund’s Supernatural books?”

“...those are your bets, aren’t they?”

\--

Cohen waited until it was legit.

The next morning, you were released, with a bill addressed to Y/N Smith. Fortunately for you, the shirt you had on that day wasn’t torn, and neither were the pants, though they got a bit loose. The nurse waited for you on his break, and then took you to the psych ward’s communal area. He said he’d asked about that patient’s status, and that he was told he was currently stable, had been for a couple of months, and so he was allowed to be with others. According to Cohen, he was usually huddled up with a book in the quiet corner of the area, and that you _could_ talk to him, but it had to be quick, _like, fifteen minutes max._

Yeah, okay.

“Here,” he said, pointing at the corner to your left, “There he is. His name is -”

“Sam.”

Holy shit.

Leaning on the wall, buried in a hoodie and nose-deep into a novel, was your little brother. Not the same Sam from the future, you knew; this was the Sam you remembered, from _before._ The Sam who was supposed to be lecturing a hall-full of students right now about Mythology and Religion. The Sam that was supposed to have some sort of a normal life after you jumped in the Cage. Right about now.

_Sam._

Cohen said something else to you, but you didn’t care. You walked over to your brother, breath hitched in the back of your throat, and tapped his shoulder. He’d seen you, four months ago, in this timeline. He’d known you were there. He jumped a little, and shut his book, looking back with curious eyes.

Curious eyes that turned cold in an instant.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move much, except to get back to his book, like he didn’t see you, like nothing happened. “Sam.”

He flinched.

You sat down across from him. “I know you can see me,” you said, “I woke up today. I was in a coma, apparently,” you said, “I didn’t - I didn’t know you were here. What happened?”

He took a deep breath, his long fingers shaking as he flipped the page, but he didn’t look at you.

“Sammy.”

His chest heaved, but he stayed still, eyes glued on the book, but not moving between the lines.

“Sam, you’re starting to freak me out here,” you said, forcing a laugh, “Please just - look at me.”

“Stop,” he breathed, “ _Stop_.”

Your heart sunk. “What happened to you, Sammy?” you asked, “Tell me. I can help. I’ll - I’ll do anything, just, what happened? Does Dean know you’re here?”

“You’re not real,” he said, “You’re not real. This is not happening.”

“I’m - I’m real, I promise.” You reached out and snatched the book out of his hands. “See?”

He glanced around him nervously. Cohen was leaning over the counter, talking to another nurse, but other than that, everyone was exactly the same as when you’d walked in. Without another word, he got up, leaving you, and his book, behind, and started walking towards the private rooms, according to the sign.

You made sure you were hidden behind his frame, so you could slide past Cohen, and the other nurses. He kept walking the dark hallways, ignoring you when you called his name again, ignoring the music that played from one of the rooms, and the way you tried to shake him into a reaction, into realizing you were real. It wasn’t until you were in his room, with the door closed, that he gave you one.

Except you didn’t really expect the hand on your throat.

He flung you on the wall, now staring directly into your eyes. “Listen, you fucker,” he said, “You don’t get to do that. Not again. Not now.”

“Sam,” you squeaked, struggling to breathe, “What the fuck?”

“Things are _finally_ getting better for me,” he said, “You don’t get to ruin that. Do you hear me?”

Your vision was starting to spot. “Sam, I don’t wanna hurt you. Let go.”

“Or what?” he asked, “You’re _not real_ , not this time.”

“Sam, _forfuck’ssake_.”

“You don’t get to use her against me again,” he said, “I _win_. It’s over.”

You kicked him in the stomach, hard enough for his grip to loosen, but not hard enough for him to fall on his back. As soon as you were free, you ran to the other side of the room, hand on your neck. “Jesus,” you said, “What the fuck happened to you, dude?”

“Is that all you got?” he asked, “ _Really?”_

You held your hand up, letting the warmth surge through you, and to your palms. They glowed in front of you, and it felt so easy, so instinctive. “Sam, I love you,” you said, “But stay back, okay? Just talk to me.”

He rolled his eyes, and threw himself on the bed, back to ignoring your presence, it seemed. This wasn’t getting you anywhere. Nowhere useful, at least. It ate at your brain, but he didn’t see _you_ , you thought, not really anyway. But it was starting to piece itself together, somewhat. Not what happened to Sam, no. That much was still a mystery, but it wasn’t like he was going to talk to you, or like you could just waltz into Lisa’s house and hope Dean didn’t also lie to you about what he did after you died.

After all, you wouldn’t be staying here much longer.

You remembered not _remembering._ You remembered Lucifer’s words, about how everything was in bits and pieces in your memory, but you knew, now. You knew what he did, when he did it, _how_ he did it. You remembered the details, the day he decided to try something new, to shut you and Adam up for good. You remembered the process, everything about it, including the _programming._ Like angels, he’d said, it was inefficient to leave you with a lot of power and no direction. You had to know what you were doing, how to do it, as much as can be done without having a physical body at the time, anyway.

You remembered. You _knew._

So you knew what this was. You knew you’d tapped into your soul, or Adam’s, if that distinction could be made now anyway, and got to Sam, in this timeline, somehow. Like the time travel spell you’d read about in the bunker, the one who connected you to your blood relatives. What you didn’t know was why, or how. You were _dead_ , weren’t you? So how did you end up here? How did you do it, if it was you?

And if it wasn’t you, who was it?

Sam glanced at you one more time, and covered his eyes with his hand. “Screw it,” you heard him say, “Cas. I need you. Please,” he said, “Something’s wrong again. I know - I know you’re busy,” he said, “But please. Please just - just for a second. I would - I would really appreciate it if you would come down here, and help me.”

Right. Castiel. Maybe he could fly in 2010. Maybe the angels hadn’t fallen yet.

But nothing happened for a while, and you could see Sam curl up in his bed, facing away from you, clutching to his pillow for dear life. You ached to comfort him, to tell him that it was okay, to assure him that _he_ was okay, but you had a feeling that if you spoke another word, you could make him even worse. So you held your hands together, and looked up.

 _Castiel,_ you prayed, _Come down here. Please. Amen._

As soon as you thought the words, the entire place shook, for a brief second, and Sam sat up in his bed. But it wasn’t Castiel who showed up; it was some other angel, a woman, with an angel blade in her hand, staring right at you.

“Who are you?” Sam asked, “Where’s Cas?”

“He’s a bit busy, at the moment,” she said, “But I’m here on his behalf.”

Sam stared down at his hands. “Do you know?” he asked, “About me?”

“Yes.”

“Then - then what happened?” he asked, “I thought - I thought it was fixed, that it was over,” he said, “But you can see her, can’t you? Just like Cas could, back then.”

“I’m afraid,” she said, “This is a different situation entirely. Don’t worry,” she said, “The Cage is secure. We have our best soldiers on it. So how are _you_ here?”

“That’s a _long_ story,” you said, “And if Castiel was here, I’d tell him myself.”

She crossed the distance between you, her eyes narrowed, her blade raised. “That _raw_ power,” she mused, “Not enough to weaken the Cage, though. Or take down its guards,” she said, “Not like this.”

Wait - she could _sense_ your powers?

“She’s - she’s real?”

She took a couple of steps back, and pressed a finger to Sam’s forehead, knocking him out, and came charging at you, blade in hand. The thought of _letting_ her, whatever she was intending on doing, crossed your mind, but you couldn’t. You wouldn’t. You came back from an injury that could’ve, and should’ve killed you. You weren’t about to go through that again. And even if it did work, you weren’t sure you were still as set on biting the dust as you did the day you met Lucifer.

There were too many questions, still. Answers you couldn’t leave without.

You being here, now, was a mistake, a glitch, you thought. So all you had to do was fix it. Sam and Dean were in the bunker, you gathered, right after what happened, so you focused on _that -_ the bunker. Your room there. The library. The garage. Whatever you could muster. You thought of it, of all of it, and felt the familiar warmth surge through your body once again.

Before the angel could get you, you opened the door, and everything _shifted._

\--

Sam didn’t know what to _think._

The bunker was the most secure place he knew, so secure a Knight of Hell made it her life’s mission to get to it, at some point. So secure they had Crowley in there for months, without anyone noticing. So secure they’d been living there for years and nothing that came from outside the bunker, or the organization that built it, ever broke into their space without their knowledge and explicit permission.

How could her body just _disappear?_

Claire had her knife in her hand as soon as Dean said the words, but Jody shot her a look that Sam could only interpret as _No way in hell._ Mary walked to her eldest. “Did you see what happened?”

Dean shook his head, eyes fixed on his little brother. “What did you do?”

“What?”

“What did you _do_ , dammit?” he asked, “Don’t play dumb. You did something. And now her body’s gone.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Sam said, voice hoarse, “I wish I could.”

“Sam.”

“I swear,” he said, “Whatever it was, it wasn’t me.”

Dean grimaced. “Okay,” he said, “Okay, then we get to work. If, uh, if anyone wants to go home, that’s fine,” he announced, to everyone standing, “There’s no saying how dangerous this could be.”

Jody looked at her girls. “I’m not leaving,” Claire said, “No way.”

“Claire, you heard Dean -”

“Yeah, I did,” she said, “But she was my friend. I can’t go around saving strangers, and back out now.”

Jody sighed. “I’m staying, too. But Alex has classes to go back to in a couple of days.”

Alex nodded. “Yeah,” she said, “Sorry.”

Dean shook his head. “Nothing to be sorry for,” he said, “Thank you for being here today.” He turned to Mary. “Mom?”

“Of course I’m staying,” she said, “I have to make a phone call first, though.”

“The Brits?” Sam asked.

“They have -”

“Please,” Dean breathed, “Please don’t.”

“Okay, then,” she said, “We’ll do it your way. But if we’re outnumbered, if we need backup -”

Sam walked past her, and Dean, inside. “Over my dead body,” he said, “Cas.”

The angel followed him. The rest of them stayed in the library, while he and the angel made their way towards Y/N’s room. “I didn’t sense anything,” he said, “If it was Lucifer, even with the warding, I would’ve noticed.”

“Do you think she could be - do you think there’s a chance…”

Cas sighed. “I truly don’t know,” he said, “You - we have all beaten death, some of us more literally than others,” he said, “It wouldn’t be impossible.”

“But?”

“But I can’t imagine anything good could come out of her being alive, the way things are.”

Sam stopped cold in his tracks. “Don’t - not you, too, Cas.”

“You know I don’t mean to dismiss her value, Sam,” Cas said, “I mean that the last time someone’s body disappeared from their room in this bunker, hell gained a Knight.”

Sam swallowed the lump in his throat.

“And the last time she disappeared,” the angel said, “She came back possessed by Lucifer. The time before that,” he said, “Well, you remember.”

“I do,” Sam said, “But it’s not going to be like this. Not this time.”

“You have faith.”

More than anything. He pushed the door open, to her room, and confirmed what Dean said - there was nothing there, except the piece of cloth that was over her, on the bed. But something smelled weird in the room - not sulfur, no, something close to burning. Slowly, carefully, he lifted the cloth, only to reveal a burned mattress. The exact type of burn that ate at the motel carpet, back when that psychic, Magda, was in her head.

This was her doing. It had to be. He had to believe it was.

He breathed, and it felt like the first time in the past two days. Behind him, Cas must’ve picked up on his thoughts, because he said something about having to tell Dean, and practically ran out. Sam fell to his knees, next to the bed, and held onto the burned cotton.

“I’ll find you this time,” he said, “If it’s the last thing I do.”

\--

You rolled out of one of the bunker’s doors.

Maybe you were only twenty-nine physically, but your back still felt like someone had stabbed it with a million tiny swords as you tried to get up. Your limbs were cold, and shaking, like you’d just run a marathon, but you propped yourself up. As soon as you did, though, you heard multiple simultaneous _clicks._

You raised your hands up. “It’s just me,” you said, “I can explain.”

“Well,” an unfamiliar voice said, “You better.”

You raised your eyes to meet his - theirs, you realized. Five men, barely your age, some definitely younger, all holding guns in your direction. All in suits. All as terrified as you as they would’ve been if you were the one holding the guns. The walls were the same, though. The lighting in the hallway, even, and the symbols - wait -

“You’re Men of Letters, aren’t you?”

“I believe we’re the ones who should be asking the questions.”

Hands still raised, you stood, slowly, keeping eye contact with one of them - the oldest. _Don’t shoot._ “I just have one.”

“Which is?”

“Which one of you, gentlemen,” you said, “Is a Winchester?”

 


	13. Chapter Thirteen

No one answered you.

But one of them shifted when you said the name Winchester, and you knew you’d hit the mark. You kept your eyes on him, hands still raised above your head. “What year is this?”

The man’s frown deepened, and he lowered his gun, just the slightest bit. The others didn’t move, though, so you kept your stance, only to be greeted with a splash of holy water to the face. Why the face? Why must it _always_ be the face? You spat out the bit that made it to your lips, blinking to clear your vision without using your hands, hoping the sting you felt didn’t translate to your features.

“Could’ve just said _Christo._ ”

“Who are you?” the Winchester asked, “And how did you get here?”

“Year.”

“1956.”

“Then you must be Henry.”

“Henry,” one of the younger ones whispered, elbowing your grandfather, eyes still fixed on you, “What’s going on?”

“Shush, wait,” Henry said, “What year are _you_ from?”

“It’s complicated,” you said, “But I was born in 1980, if that helps.” At the whispers, the hesitation, you said, “Can we speak somewhere private?”

“If you know about the Men of Letters,” he said, “then you know that whatever you want to say to me in private, you can say in front of my mates.”

“Yeah, screw it, why not,” you said, “My name’s Y/N Winchester. I’m John Winchester’s daughter. Your granddaughter.” Everyone fell silent. “Is it really that hard to believe? Isn’t the time-traveling blood sigil pretty standard with you guys? I can’t be the first one. And you can test my blood, can’t you?”

“You’re the first one from the future,” one of them said.

 _Yeah, well, you kind of go extinct in two years._ “Can you put the guns down now, please?”

“What do you _want?”_ the oldest asked.

“Easy,” Henry said, “If she used the blood sigil, she must be in need of help.”

“Or she got lost trying to play with spells not meant for _her_ ,” another one said, earning himself a chuckle from a couple more suits.

Literally _two minutes_ into the fifties…

“Ignore him,” Henry said, putting his gun away. “You’re not armed, are you?”

You were about to say no when the same one who’d spoken earlier snickered. Sighing, you angled your body towards him, and in one, swift movement, you had his wrist tucked in your elbow, punching him with your other arm and carefully slipping his gun out of his hand.

“Now I am.”

A small smile tugged on Henry’s lips, and he extended his hand. You flipped the gun and handed it over, side-eying the other guy, who was still rubbing his jaw. Everyone else holstered their weapons, the stiffness wavering. “So what brings you here from the twenty-first century?”

“Uh, like you said,” you said, “I need help. And, look, no offense, but you’re the only one around here I know I can trust, so.”

He considered it. “We can speak in my room, if you wish.”

“Henry.”

“I still haven’t taken my lunch break,” Henry argued, “And what better way to do it than with my granddaughter. I won’t be long.”

“Henry,” another one said, hand on his upper arm, “We have to report this.”

Henry looked almost offended at that. “And we will, of course,” he said, “But none of the elders are here at the moment,” he said, “So what do you suggest we do? Wait here, in the hallway, until one of them comes back?”

“Call in an emergency.”

“This is hardly an emergency,” Henry said, “You heard the girl; it’s standard to be on the receiving end of spells. And she _is_ one of us,” he said, “Even if this happened in our timeline yet. Have you been initiated?”

It took you a second to realize he was talking to you. “Sure,” you said, “Of course.” Whatever the fuck that meant.

“See?” Henry said, “She outranks you. In fact,” he said, “She outranks all of us here. What do you think the elders would think if we denied her the help she needs?”

\--

It wasn’t the bunker.

So not only did you screw up the time, but also the _place._ Henry, you realized, didn’t know about the bunker, not yet anyway. This was, however, one of the Men of Letters hideouts, where their students lived, and had some of their classes. The rooms were similar to those of the bunker, only the same space was shared by two students, always - a senior, close to his initiation, and a junior, a child, still starting out, that the senior kept an eye on, and helped if needed.

Henry’s junior was in class, so it was just you and him in the room. He sat on his bed, while you leaned back against his desk, arms crossed over your chest.

“It wasn’t a blood sigil, was it?” he asked, “Your palm - it doesn’t have any cuts.”

“Smart.”

“Are you really whom you claim to be?”

“I am,” you promised, “But I didn’t come here on purpose, not really,” you said, “And it might not have been a blood sigil, but it was the same spell. Practically the same.”

“But,” he said, “Blood calls to blood.”

“Blood is used to access the soul,” you corrected, “Which calls to the soul of the blood relative.”

“So you -”

“Accessed my soul -” _and that of one of your grandsons_ “- and used it to travel through time. But I didn’t get it right. I wasn’t supposed to end up here. I was supposed to end up in the future -”

“Maybe,” he said, “The future you were aiming for didn’t _have_ any of your blood relatives.”

“No,” you said, “That’s not it. I know my brothers are there. I just need to _focus,_ I think, I’m just not sure _how_ ,” you admitted, “I need to be there at a specific time, or a small window of time, in the right place.”

“That bunker you mentioned.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“Well,” he said, “That’s easy. We can work on it, if you want,” he said, “But I don’t know how to tap into my soul directly, so you’re going to have to teach me that first -”

“No can do, sorry.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why not?” he asked, “Is it something that gets discovered in the future? Are you afraid it would create some sort of a paradox?” He reached into his jacket and pulled a small notebook. “Because I can keep quiet about it. I won’t tell anyone else.”

“Sorry,” you said, “Still can’t. You think you could teach me how to do it with the spell? I could still use it.”

He sighed. “All you need to do is fool-proof it.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Fool-proof it,” he said, “Maybe you use a different term in your time. It’s when you add ingredients to a spell in order to make absolutely sure that it either works the exact way you planned, or doesn’t work at all. We use that with our juniors, so they don’t accidentally blow something, or someone, up while training.”

“You can do that?” you asked, “Without messing with the integrity of the spell?”

“Of course,” he said, “Think of it as a wrapper spell. How come you don’t know this?”

 _It wasn’t in the books I read in the bunker._ “Like you said, different times.”

“Difficult times, from the sound of it,” he said, “Is that all you need?”

“Yeah,” you said, “Yeah, that would be great. Do you have the necessary ingredients here, or do we have to go fetch them?”

He stood up. “There’s no rush,” he said, “We can get you settled here, first. I think it would be best if you stayed with Josie; she’s another student here, the only woman, actually,” he explained, “So she’s staying alone in her room. I don’t think she, or any of the elders, would mind if you stayed with her. Though, they might want to take you up on the offer to test your blood.”

“Look,” you said, “I know that I’m not technically wasting any time by staying here,” you said, “But I’d really rather get this over with as soon as possible. So thank you for the offer,” you said, “But if we can get this done _today_ -”

“Today?” he asked, “Are you _insane_?”

“...do you have other plans?”

“Your _soul_ ,” he said, “It needs to recharge. You’ve used up a significant amount by traveling through time. If you try to jump back now, you might not survive the jump. How do you not know this?”

You knew, you just didn’t think it applied to your case. But, you supposed, it was a risk you couldn’t afford, especially that it wasn’t just _your_ soul in the equation, and there was no telling what “not surviving the jump” would mean for either you or Adam.

Someone knocked on the door - three little knocks, and Henry stood up, a smile on his face, to answer it. “This must be my favorite junior,” he said, pulling the door open, “How are you doing today, sport?”

The little boy, who couldn’t be any older than thirteen or fourteen, shrugged. “I’m fine,” he said, “Who is this?”

“This,” Henry said, “is my good friend, Y/N.”

“I know. She’s your granddaughter. But what about the other one?”

“What do you mean?”

“The other person. I can hear him, but not quite clearly,” the boy said, laying his bag on his bed, “He’s very noisy, though.”

It was subtle, but you could see Henry reach for his gun one more time. “What is he talking about?”

“I - I don’t -”

“Oh,” the boy said, “Yes, that could be it. Okay, then,” he said, “Nice to meet you two.”

“Oliver,” Henry said, “You remember what we talked about before? Not all of us can hear what you can. Use your words.”

He pointed at you. “She has two souls at the same time,” he said, “The other one belongs to her half-brother. His name’s Adam.”

Holy shit. Holy _shit._ What _was_ this kid? Was he an angel? How could he tell? It took Castiel a lot of detective work to figure it out himself. But maybe something changed, since the other angel, at the hospital, sensed your powers, something that Cas wasn’t able to do. But still, why would they keep an angel around, train him? And why would an angel be a junior student?

Unless - unless he wasn’t an angel. Unless he was psychic, or something like that. The Men of Letters trained psychics, that much you knew. Like that Price person. Wait - wait, wait, wait -

“You’re Oliver Price.”

“You know Oliver?” Henry asked, “From the future?”

“I know of him.”

“And is it true?” he asked, “You have two souls?”

You didn’t know how to answer that, and that was enough for Henry to grab your hand and pull you out of the room. “Where are we going?”

“We’re going to see my mentor,” he said, “Cuthbert Sinclair.”

\--

**2016**

Dean was way, _way_ too sober for this entire _week_.

First, it was Y/N. What happened to her. What she made him promise. Everything - _everything_ that happened in those forty-eight hours ate away at his _soul._ It wasn’t supposed to go like this, they weren’t supposed to lose her like this, but it did, and they did, and there was nothing he could do. Nothing that could change the outcome of this. She was better off now. Away from this, away from them. Away from everything that made their lives as complicated and as fucked up as it was right now.

But tell that to _Sam._

Sam was _convinced_ she was still alive, _somehow._ So convinced, he actually left the bunker to go look for her, try to track her, with Jody’s help. But it made no sense; why would she be alive? _How?_ The burn marks on the mattress meant nothing. It could be from something else - it could be from whatever took her body, whatever claimed it. Cas said it wasn’t Lucifer, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t a demon that worked for him; the door to the bunker was open at the time, so the warding was broken. A demon could’ve snuck in, and got her body.

But no, oh no, let’s go with the idea that she was somehow still breathing. Despite her body being beyond repair according to a freakin’ _angel._

Dean wasn’t around when Sam had gone through something similar, he supposed. He sure as fuck wasn’t like this when Bobby died, but maybe he was like this when _he_ did. When he got stabbed by Metatron, or those hundred or so times at the hands of Gabriel. He didn’t want to think about that _other_ time, because that - _that_ was a different case entirely, right?

He was just so damn _obsessive._ He kept reading into every single thing, and everyone could see it, even _Claire._ But he was right on one thing: they had to find her. They had to find her body. No son of a bitch out there was going to get away with doing _that_ , not even the devil himself.

“ _Talk_.”

The demon tied in the bunker’s dungeon - Aamon, Cas said his name was - hissed. “And why would I?” he asked, “You’re gonna kill me anyway.”

Dean’s smile was tight, the demon knife in his hand. “You’re right,” he said, “But I can do it right away,” he offered, “Or I could take my sweet, sweet time making it happen. And if you know anything about me,” he said, “You know I’m more than good for it.”

“That could’ve worked with Crowley in charge,” Aamon said, “But _Lucifer…”_

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Dean said, “He’s every demon’s wet dream. Going to make hell great again,” he said, “So, what, you’re willing to suffer for the cause? _Really?”_

He didn’t wait for his answer, just sliced the black-eyed fucker’s throat and poured his entire flask of holy water on it. “It won’t _work._ ”

Dean sighed. “Yeah,” he said, “It’s not worth the effort. Cas?”

Wordlessly, the angel stepped forward, and pushed the demon’s head backward with his palm. His face lit, and he screamed, and screamed, and _screamed._ Dean wondered, for a second, if he should’ve sent Claire farther away during this “investigation”, but, he supposed, it was too late now. Cas stopped just short of smiting him, just on the edge, when his eyes were rimmed red, and his entire body sparkled, glitched, like it was malfunctioning.

“ _Now_ do you feel like talking?”

“I don’t know anything,” he said, “I swear, I swear I don’t know anything -”

“Not good enough. Cas?”

“Wait! Wait,” he said, “I don’t know where Lucifer is. _No one does._ He’s gone AWOL for a _week._ ”

A week. So right about the time he was summoned by Y/N.

“And why should we believe you?”

“Believe what you want,” he said, “But it’s the truth.” Dean didn’t even bother telling Cas what to do; but as soon as the angel rested his palm on Aamon’s forehead again, the demon wriggled. “That’s - that’s not all I know.”

“ _Talk._ I’m not gonna ask twice.”

“I know something about your sister,” he said, “But no smiting.”

Dean considered it. “Knife is faster.”

“Is there any way….” At Dean’s face, he recoiled. “Knife’s fine.”

“So?”

“So you’re asking about your sister’s _body_. You think she’s dead.”

“And?”

“And she can’t be, not if she hasn’t died since she came back,” he said, “Lucifer made sure of it.”

Cas frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know the details, okay?” he said, “But when he was handing out instructions, he told us that after we bring her back, we have to kill whatever body we put her in. But only once. He said - he said that it was a failsafe,” he said, “To make sure she’d, and I quote, _function at full capacity._ ”

“Cas?”

“That would be interesting,” Cas said, “If true.”

“Why else would he tell us that, huh?”

“To make sure she dies,” Dean speculated, “Maybe he wanted her out to kill her.”

“I don’t think so,” the demon said.

“Well,” Dean said, “No one gives a shit what you think. Cas?”

“No! No, no, _you said you wouldn’t -”_

Dean shrugged while Cas smote the son of a bitch.

“We should call Sam.”

“And, what?” he asked, “Reinforce his delusions?”

Cas’ frustration radiated through his entire body. “Look me in the eyes, Dean,” he said, “And tell me not one part of you believes she’s alive.”

Dean closed his eyes, took a deep breath. “So maybe on some level, it’s possible, okay? _Maybe_. But that doesn’t mean we should tell him, alright? Not until we’re a hundred percent sure.”

“When are we ever a hundred percent sure of _anything?_ ”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t start with this,” Dean said, “You know as well as I do it’s not the _same_. If there’s a tiny chance she’s still dead I don’t want him to have hope.”

“Sam has come a long way since then.”

“And what if he hasn’t, huh?” Dean asked, “What if he just _breaks?”_

The angel licked his lips. “It’s not the same,” he argued, “What happened back then was because of _me_ , what _I_ did to the Cage after the battle.”

“He stayed two whole years in that hospital,” Dean said, “You think it was all because of the Cage? No. You weren’t there. He kept - in his mind, she never died, Cas, not really. He never let go of the whole thing, kept blaming himself for every single second he spent up here while she spent down there,” he said, “He has to let go. He has to accept she’s gone. And if she comes back,” he said, “Then great. But if she doesn’t, _when_ she doesn’t,” he said, “He has to be ready.”

“You can’t keep making decisions _for him,_ Dean.”

“Watch me.”

\--

**1956**

All of this, every single moment, felt like it could be one of Gabriel’s universes.

There was little urgency to everything, little _care._ Everything was so surreal and so overwhelming you were basically going with the flow. But the flow seemed _okay_ so far; Sam and Dean both described Henry as a trustworthy guy, someone who stuck to his beliefs and who actually died for them, even if he snuck a few comments about how hunters were apes every now and then.

After your brief encounter with Oliver, he didn’t take you directly to his mentor; he made you stop by Josie’s, who was actually surprised to see another woman in the same building. In order to blend in, he said, you had to change into something that “resembled the current fashion a little better”. You apologized to her, but took her up on the plaid dress and the coat. But not the heels. He could wear the heels himself if he wanted to. He even suggested she do your hair, and both you and her shot him the dirtiest look you could muster.

“Where is that mentor of yours anyway? Is there another bunker here somewhere?”

He parked the car in what looked like the middle of nowhere. Just some trees. “When I said mentor,” he said, “I didn’t mean it in an official capacity. Though he was that up until a few months ago.”

“And then?”

“He got discharged recently,” he said, “From the Men of Letters. They thought his ideas were too extreme.”

“That’s not worrying.”

“I assure you,” he said, “He’s just more of a visionary than what they think is appropriate. But he always encouraged me to learn, to master my knowledge,” he said, “And to train. I see we’ve managed to take a more proactive role. In the future.” He paused. “You had extensive weapon training, for example, I assume.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

He stepped out of the car, motioning for you to do the same. “I trust Sinclair,” he said, “But I have also seen him with people he did not trust, so -” He dug in his pocket, and handed you a small nylon packet, with purple powder inside, and a piece of paper with what you assumed was an incantation, “- this is in case you need to get out.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“He’s my mentor,” he said, “But you’re my blood. It’s something of a family tradition. Winchesters always have each other’s backs.”

You smiled. He was just too _unscathed_ , too pure, to be an actual Winchester. But, you supposed, you could see the resemblance. You buried the spell in your dress’ - actual - pockets, beneath your coat, and followed him to the open field.

“Mr. Sinclair, sir,” Henry started, speaking to the wind, apparently, “I know this is not a scheduled visit, but we need your help. This is my granddaughter.” When nothing happened, he continued. “She came from another century, asking for my help.”

Before you could even try to utter a word, your view shifted, and you were inside a house.

It was dull, not really much to see, but the woodwork was _neat._ Henry, all smiles and no hesitation, guided you through the hallways, until you made it to the living room, where the man you assumed was Sinclair was standing.

“She looks nothing like you, Henry.”

Henry laughed and greeted the man. “Y/N,” he said, “This is my mentor, Cuthbert Sinclair.”

You shook his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine. Please, sit,” he said, “How can I help you today?”

“Well,” Henry started, “There are two matters we need to work on. One is very doable, I think -”

“Then let’s start with that.”

“The blood sigil,” Henry started, “The one we use to travel through time. Is there any reason why it wouldn’t work as expected?”

Sinclair frowned. “If the ingredients are correct, I don’t see why it would fail. Did it not work as expected with you?” he asked, “When you came here.”

You glanced at Henry, who encouraged you to speak. Okay, then. “I thought of a specific place,” you said, “But ended up somewhere else.”

“What was that place?”

“The bunker,” you said, “In Lebanon, Kansas.”

He grinned. “Yeah, I can see why _this_ wouldn’t work,” he said, “If you were outside the bunker at the time you did this, there is no way the warding, as it is right now, would let you in. Even if you _are_ a legacy. May I ask where you ended up?”

“In our dorms,” Henry said, “But couldn’t it be because I wasn’t there?”

He shook his head. “She wasn’t aiming for you, was she? She was aiming for someone else. Some other time,” he said, glancing at your shoes. Heh. “If you want my advice,” he said, “You can tweak the spell, just a little, so it doesn’t have to call to blood. It can call to a Men of Letters place. Maybe not the bunker,” he said, “But somewhere like the dorms. It should work.”

“This brings us to our next topic,” Henry said, “One I believe is slightly more complicated.”

“I’m intrigued.”

“She doesn’t have to use any ingredients for the spell to work. She can tap into her souls directly.”

“Souls?” he asked, leaning forward in his seat, “Plural?”

“Yes. She, for some reason she would not disclose, has two souls.”

“Next time, Henry,” Sinclair said, “Start with that. And what seems to be the problem?”

“...the fact that she has multiple souls,” Henry said, “The other one is not hers, but her half-brother’s.”

“ _Half_ brother,” Sinclair mused, “So you weren’t born with this.”

“No,” you said, “This is pretty much a very recent development.”

He frowned. “Was it an accident, of sorts?” he asked, “An experiment gone wrong? Is that brother of yours walking around without a soul as we speak?”

“Not - not really,” you said, “Look, I don’t want to get into the details of this -”

“I believe the details are of the essence here.”

“- but you sound like you know something about this,” you said, “When no one, not even angels, know for sure.”

He rolled his eyes. “Angels are limited,” he said, “Each angel has just enough programming in them to keep them going in their rank. Something like this is very dangerous to know; souls are used, by angels, by demons, by _pagans_ , even, for power,” he said, “If any ordinary angel knew of the existence of such - such _invention_ ,” he said, “Such power, in one person, they would use it to take over heaven,” he said, “Hell. Earth. You name it.

“The research we’ve done shows the power of souls is linearly proportional to their number, but I imagine something like this could make it _exponential._ ”

“Fuck.”

He laughed, but Henry wasn’t as amused. “Is there something you know?” Henry asked, “That could help?”

Sinclair paused, fingers holding the cup of tea. “I might,” he said, “But why would I destroy such beautiful thing? You have powers, dear,” he said, “Enjoy them. Not many people can do what you can and still be human.”

“But, sir -”

“Henry,” he said, “Don’t tell me that you’re not curious. That you don’t want your precious Men of Letters, be it now or years into the future, to have this sort of advantage. Think of the spells, of the _magic_ ,” he said, “Think of all the _potential_.”

“And if I don’t want it?”

That earned you another laugh. “You’ll come to appreciate it,” he said, “And when you do, find me. I’ll be waiting for you. Now,” he said, “Or in your time.”

“You said it was dangerous.”

“And it is,” he said, “So use it wisely.”

“What if I don’t have that option?” you asked, “I’m not the one who caused this, you know. I didn’t choose this.”

“Oh?” he asked, “May I ask, who did?”

“Lucifer.”

“Oh my,” he said, “The future does sound like a blast.”

“You’re serious?” Henry asked, “The devil did this to you and your brother?”

“You can see why I don’t want it.”

“Because he’ll turn you,” Sinclair said, “If not now, then at some point, soon. It’s his _style_. He’s the inspiration to a lot of the spellwork we use to this day, you know. Every curse, every force used.”

“Sounds like the fucker.”

Henry sighed. “So will you help us?”

Sinclair nodded. “Anything for you, Henry, you know that,” he said, “But first, I have a few conditions.”

\--

**2016**

“Is it done?”

Mary rolled her eyes at Mick. “No,” she said, “I came back here, driving for hours in the middle of the night and called you to meet me because it wasn’t _done._ ”

Mick raised his hands defensively. “I apologize,” he said, “So? Where do I go?”

She guided him to the last room in the compound, and pressed her hand to the scanner until it lit green, and the door buzzed open. She pushed it in, and flicked on the lights. “Just like you said,” she said, “Exact time and place, like clockwork.”

He smiled. “Well,” he said, “I told you, when it comes to this, our intelligence is as secure as it can get.”

She looked over the body, slumped on the chair, in a plaid dress, and a gray coat, her lip busted open, her breaths soft. She seemed so innocent like this, so like _her_ , like the version of her Mary remembered, that she had to cross her arms over her chest to keep from physically reacting.

“She’ll be okay, won’t she?”

“I promise,” Mick said, “You have nothing to worry about.”

 


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Five days ago**

The bells on the shop’s door tinkled.

Ben, the cashier, rubbed his eyes and sat straight in his seat. It was a 24/7 place, but it didn’t mean that it was usual for him to get any visitors at almost four in the morning, none that were good news anyway. He double checked the gun he kept inside the drawer, and kept his eyes on the camera.

It was someone in a grey, hooded coat. A woman, by the looks of it. The coat was weather-appropriate, he supposed, but it didn’t make it any less bizarre given the time and the place. Still, she didn’t seem like much trouble; she headed straight to the electronics aisle, and grabbed herself a burner with a prepaid plan, and a couple bags of chips.

He stood up, anticipating her arrival at the cashier, but she walked right past him, towards the door. “Hey, lady!” he called, “What do you think you’re doing?”

She didn’t respond, only raised a gloved hand in his general direction and clenched her fist. The lights in the entire shop went out, and before he could do anything, she was out of the door.

\--

**Today**

Mary watched.

Y/N was still unconscious, as she should be, for at least a few more hours, if the meds she pumped into her worked the way they were intended to. They had cameras in all angles in the room she was kept in, cameras that sent the feed straight to the main meeting room where Mary, Mick, and a few other operatives watched as Ketch, who’d somehow survived what happened to him a couple of weeks ago, drew the proper traps around her, made sure she wouldn’t be going anywhere.

“I told you,” Mick said, “There’s nothing to worry about. She’ll be safe and sound here. You know we mean her no harm.”

Mary nodded. “I know,” she said, “I just keep thinking this would’ve been a lot simpler if we just _told_ her - what happened with Lucifer…”

“It was a tragic mistake,” Mick said, “But she pulled through, didn’t she? She’s a tough girl.”

“You mean immortal.”

Mick grimaced. “We don’t know that for sure,” he said, “But if it happened the way you said it did - an angel blade to the heart - then there’s a good chance she is. Which is why we have to be extra careful now.”

“I don’t know, Mick,” Mary said, “It still doesn’t feel right. We should’ve just talked to her; from what Sam and Dean tell me, she’s been looking for a cure, too -”

“Come on, Mary,” Mick said, “Do you honestly believe that? We’ve discussed this. As soon as she’s made aware of her power,” he said, “She will embrace it. She will not give it up; the power itself won’t let her. It’s a curse.”

“I’m just saying,” Mary said, “We never gave her a chance.”

Mick sighed. “And what if we did, and she refused?” he asked, “You’ve seen what she’s capable of, and she’s not even a demon yet,” he said, “She can kill, destroy, bend time and space to her will, with a _thought_. There was no other way.”

In the monitors, Ketch was apparently done with the symbols, and the warding. He then moved towards her unconscious body, and Mary’s muscles tensed. He slipped out a needle from his pocket, and jammed it into her neck. A second later, Y/N came to, with a gasp, her eyes frantic, taking in her surroundings, until she spotted him.

From the camera on her eye level, the one meant to monitor her reactions, Mary could see her eyes spark a bright red, her teeth clenched. She’d seen this before, on the footage from the day she went in and almost killed Ketch, but it didn’t make it any easier. It was just so primal, so inhuman, so unlike her daughter. So much like a monster - the monster she was bound to become, if Mary hadn’t done this.

Everyone was silent, watching the screens. One of the tech guys turned the volume up. “Welcome _back_ ,” Ketch said, “Looks like you’ve had quite a journey.”

“You’re dead,” Y/N said, “I made sure of it.”

Ketch laughed. “Yes, well,” he said, “I’m afraid it didn’t _stick_. I have to say this is a common theme for the people in this room.”

“Screw you,” Y/N spat, “And _you_ ,” she added, looking straight at one of the cameras, “You enjoy watching from behind a screen, don’t you? You cowards,” she said, “Come here and show me your faces, why don’t you?”

“Now, Y/N,” Ketch said, “There’s no need for all of this. We just want to help you, that’s all.”

“Give me a _break._ ”

“It’s true,” he said, “All we’ve done so far, ever since we found out you’re alive,” he said, “We’ve done for you. If anything, you should be quite grateful.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Do you really want to take that tone with me?” he asked, “And so early in the morning, too…”

“Oh please,” she said, “What are you gonna do? Cut me?” she asked, “Torture me? Try to kill me? You think I’m gonna give you what you want?”

“And what do I want?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “And to be honest, whatever it is, you can shove it up your ass for all I care.”

“How so very mature of you.”

She shrugged, breaking eye contact.

“Like I said, Winchester,” he said, “All I want, all we want is to help you. You want to get rid of _this_ , don’t you?”

“Not before I fry your brains.”

He sighed. “Will you let me finish, for once?”

She snickered.

“This - this burden of yours,” he said, “We’re ready to rid you of it, to help you _pass it on_ , if you will.”

“Oh,” she said, “So you’re volunteering to separate my hybrid soul, are you?”

“No,” he said, “That can’t be done. So I’m offering the next best thing.”

“And that is?”

“I’ll take it from you,” he said, “We’ll keep it, in a safe place. And you’ll be able to live on,” he said, “Free of this burden, free of everything that comes with it.”

Her face blanked, and she tilted her head back, her lips parting. Her eyes regained their normal color, Mary noticed, and she knit her eyebrows together. “You want to take my soul.”

“Both of them,” he said, “Yes.”

“Mick -”

But Mick held a hand up to Mary, leaning forward in his seat, hand on his chin, watching intently.

“And, what?” she asked, tone sharp, but wavering, “You think if I’m in a different body I’ll behave any differently?” she asked, “You think if you put me in another meatsuit I’ll just, what, be your bitch? Do as you please? I’d still be _me._ ” She struggled against her chains. “I’ll still remember _everything_ , you think this is the body I was born with?” she asked, “You think it makes a difference how I _look_?”

“I understand the way souls work, Y/N,” he said, “But I never said anything about putting it in another body.”

She tried to keep a cool front, Mary could tell, but it showed, in every quiver of her lip, in the way she paled with every breath. “So my body would be walking around without a soul,” she said, “And I - I’d be locked someplace, for you to - what, use? Power up spells? Sell?”

Ketch shrugged. “That’s the extent of what I know,” he said, “Or rather what I care to know. But it wouldn’t be _you_ that’s locked away, not really,” he said, “Your soul, alone, has no senses, can feel no pain,” he argued, “All your senses, everything else about you, would be in your body, even some of your memories, everything you gained while inside that body,” he said, “You’ll be able to live your life. You can hunt,” he said, “You can do anything, really.”

Her eyes glistened, her jaw clenching. “Have you ever been to hell?”

“Not personally, no,” he said, “But I hear a lot of things.”

“You say,” she rasped, “That souls can’t feel pain. That they have no senses,” she said, “But you have no idea what you’re talking about, what could happen, on that level…”

“I stand corrected, then,” he said, “But in this realm, on Earth,” he said, “Nothing will affect your soul. You’ll be _free_ , think about it,” he said, “All the guilt, all the pain you feel, everything that’s _holding you down_ ,” he said, “Everything that’s making you so _weak_ , so _emotional_ ,” he said, “So vulnerable,” he said, “It’ll be gone. And you’ll just be you. New and improved.”

“Go,” she heaved, “ _Fuck yourself._ ”

Ketch shrugged off his jacket, rolling up his sleeve. “And here I thought we could do this the easy way.”

Her eyes beamed red and her entire body glowed, but it dimmed in an instant. She tried again, to no avail. She looked down, on the ground, and saw the trap, the warding, sparkling, and Mary could swear, something in her eyes broke.

\--

**Four days ago**

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Claire turned her key in the ignition. “I have an errand to run,” she said, “Don’t wait up.”

Dean reached inside her car and shut it off, slipping the key out, and opened the door. “Yeah, I don’t think so,” he said, “What the hell’s going on with you, huh?”

She sighed and held out her palm. “Give me back the keys, Dean.”

“Get out.”

“Excuse me?”

“ _Get out_ ,” he repeated, “Come on, kid.”

She scoffed, reaching for the door and pulling it, only to have the older hunter pull back. “Are you an actual child? What are you doing?”

He reached into his pocket and got out the note she’d written him earlier. “What the fuck is this?”

“It’s called a note, Dean,” she said, “You were asleep, I didn’t want to wake you, _sue me_. Now can I go? I’m short on time here.”

He crouched down, so he was on her eye level. “Where did you get this?”

“I did some research.”

“ _Bullshit_ ,” he said, “There’s stuff in there only two people alive know, and I’m one of them.”

She sighed. “Three.”

“Excuse me?”

“Three people alive,” she said, “Your sister’s out there. She texted me, told me to give you this, and to leave.”

He blinked, standing back up, running a hand over his face. “And where are you off to?” he asked, “To do whatever you got in a _text?_ How do you even know it’s _her?_ ”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t,” she said, “Not for sure. But you just confirmed it.”

He licked his lips. “Alright,” he said, “Show me.”

“Can’t,” she said, “I deleted it.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“She told me to!” Claire argued, “She said it wasn’t safe. That only you should have this information,” she said, “What is it, anyway? Where are those coordinates? ‘Cause I checked Google Maps,” she said, “They’re a far way from Poughkeepsie.”

“Why?” he asked, “So _you_ go? I don’t think so. You didn’t answer my question.”

Claire ran a hand through her hair. “I’m leaving, alright?”

“Leaving?”

“Yeah,” Claire said, “This is _so much_ above my pay grade,” she said, “I expected something a lot easier than this, but the devil? Look, I’m sorry,” she said, “But it’s too much for me. I don’t think I can handle it.”

He narrowed his eyes at her.

“I swear,” she said, “Look, I even packed. I’m _sorry_ ,” she said, “I would’ve said goodbye but it’s just - I insisted I stay, and now I’m chickening out. It’s not a good look.”

He looked down at his feet, dangling her keys between his fingers. “I don’t blame you,” he said, “If anything, this is the best decision you’ve made in a long time, if you ask me.” He handed the keys back. “Doesn’t make you any less of a hunter. If anything, it’s brave of you.”

“Can I get a towel? I think I got some melodrama all over my shirt…”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. Go,” he said, “Keep in touch. Stay out of trouble.”

She revved up the engine. “Sure thing, grandpa,” she said, “Text if you have any news, will you?”

He nodded, and she drove off, watching as the bunker’s garage door closed behind her, Dean’s figure retreating inside. _That_ was close. As soon as she was a safe distance away, she parked on the side of the road, and picked up her phone, calling Sam’s number.

“Hey, Claire.”

“Hey.”

“What’s up?”

She double checked her rearview mirror, as if Dean was going to manifest out of thin air and hear her. “Where are you, like, right now?”

“Um,” he paused, “Lawrence. Why?”

“I need to meet you,” she said, “It’s urgent. Are you staying at a motel there?”

“No, I’m just passing through. What happened?” he asked, “Are you okay? Is it Dean? Or Cas?”

“I’m okay, and no, it’s neither of them,” she said, “I can’t really talk on the phone.”

He paused. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, “Call me when you make it here, or I can meet you halfway, if you like, if it’s that urgent.”

“Hold on.” She put him on hold while she opened Google Maps again, putting in the location, and comparing the distances. “No, it’s better if I meet you in Lawrence. But we can’t stay for long,” she said, “So if you need to get any sleep or anything…”

“Really?” he asked, “We’ve reached this point. Okay.”

She rolled her eyes. “Just don’t tell Dean,” she said, “Or Cas. Promise me, okay?”

“What about Jody?”

“I’ll tell Jody.”

“Yeah?”

She twirled her hair around her finger. “Yeah.”

\--

**Three days ago**

Sam was hesitant at first.

It was true that he wasn’t really going anywhere with his search for Y/N, but he was on the right track, or at least he thought so; he’d captured demons, went back to Sioux Falls, to Bobby’s, looking for her. Jody put out an APB on her as soon as she got back to her job, leaving Sam to hop between towns on his own.

Until he met Claire, that is.

Claire was so sure of her intel, so insistent that they go to the coordinates she had, that it would help him with this whole mess, that he had no other option but to ditch the car he was using, as she requested, switch his GPS off, and ride next to her. He felt a little uneasy, knowing that they were intentionally keeping this from Dean, Cas, and probably Jody, but it was the first semi-solid thing he’d found since he started looking, and he wasn’t about to let that go.

“Do you know what we’re walking into here?”

Claire turned off the engine, shaking her head. “You got your angel blade, just in case?”

He rolled his eyes. “This gets weirder by the second,” he said, “So this is the place?”

“Yup,” she said, pointing at the alley in front of them, “Entrance is right there.”

“Cool,” he said, slipping out his gun, “Stay in the car.”

“Hey!” she protested, “I _brought you_ here.”

“Nice try,” he said, “You’re staying here.”

“No way.”

“Maybe you missed the note,” he said, his tone sharp, “But people keep dying, and you can’t exactly come back,” he said, “So you’re staying, or _so help me._ ”

“Will you stop treating me like a kid already?”

He grimaced. “It’s not like that,” he said, “Just, please. You can watch from over here. If I need backup, feel free to hop out. But until we know what this is,” he said, “It’s smart that one stays back, and watches. It’s what I would’ve done with Dean. You still got your sword?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” He got out of the car, glancing at his watch. Five minutes left. He slammed the door shut and buried his hands in his pockets, walking over to the entrance, and waiting. He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for, exactly, just that he needed to be here, at this exact moment, and that’s it. He kept turning on his heels, trying to catch any movement, anything out of the ordinary.

One minute.

He held onto his gun, thumb running over the carvings, when he heard a loud bang, followed by a door squeaking open - the entrance. He held his weapon up, and even heard Claire’s car door unlock, when a hooded figure emerged, panting, holding onto the knob, before looking up, and catching Sam’s eye. “ _Yes!”_ she said, “It worked!”

Sam took a step back, and watched as she removed her hood, her long, blond hair, falling out, her lips spreading into a grin. He didn’t lower his gun, only tightened his grip around it. “What the…”

“God, it’s good to _see you_ ,” she said, moving closer to him, pushing the hand with the gun down, and he let her. She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him, for a second, before pulling away. “I know,” she said, “But it’s only been a few days, right? A little more than a week?”

His breath was cold, heavy.

It was her, or it looked an awful lot like _her_ , Y/N. But her hair was a lot longer, and her _clothes_ \- how - where - “Is it really you?”

“You got any holy water?” she asked, “Silver?”

“I - I don’t…” He rubbed his face with the back of his palm, with the same hand that held his gun. “Holy shit.”

He had faith. He did. He believed she was out there, somewhere, alive. He knew Claire was leading him to a _clue_ , to something that might have something to do with the case, so he was a little shaken, a little taken aback. There she was, the same person he’d seen stabbed to death less than two weeks ago, but also _not._ She didn’t have the same desperation to her features, the same hopelessness, and that’s completely ignoring the hair and the _dress._

It was just too good to be true.

“You want proof?” He didn’t answer, only observed her, like she was the weirdest thing he’d ever seen. She took a deep breath, and blinked. Her eyes turned from their normal shade, to a bright, bloody red. “I’ve been told they change color,” she said, blinking them back, “And you saw me that day.”

“Where _were_ you?” he asked, “What happened? We thought you died.”

“I think I _did_ ,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear, “I woke up in a hospital. Thought it was you guys who put me there,” she said, “But it was, uh, a different time.”

“What?”

“I time-traveled,” she said, “And yes, I know exactly how that sounds.”

“So how long?” he asked, “How long has it been for you?”

She paused. “A total of seven months,” she said, “I wasn’t - I wasn’t trying to run away, or anything. I was comatose more than half the time. I got back as soon as I could.”

“And you’re - you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” she breathed, “I’m fine.”

He breathed a laugh, and engulfed her in a hug. She hugged him back, just as hard. “I’m sorry,” he said, “That day, with Lucifer, I should’ve -”

“Nope,” she said, “We’re not doing that. Not right now,” she said, “There’s a lot - _a lot_ we should talk about, but right now, there’s something I need your help with.”

He frowned. Of course. “Yeah, how did Claire know you were going to be here?”

“She didn’t, she couldn’t have,” Y/N said, “I only told her to tell you to come here.”

“Why not just tell me?”

“Er,” she said, “I’m not sure your phone isn’t being tapped by the Brits.”

He raised his eyebrows at her.

“Also,” she said, “I had your number saved to my phone, I didn’t have it memorized, sorry,” she said, “I tried your old number, but it was out of service.”

“Has been for a few years,” he said, “Okay. So let’s head back to the bunker -”

“Oh no,” she said, “Like I said - I need your help.”

“With what?”

“The Brits,” she said, “I know how they know. About me. About us. Everything.”

“What?” he asked, “How?”

She licked her lips. “Apparently,” she said, “The Americans and the Brits synced notes from time to time.”

“And?”

“And I ended up in 1956, for a while,” she said, “And they knew _everything_.” she snapped her fingers, “Just like that. They’re even the ones who called it a _hybrid soul._ ”

“What?” he said, “Then how come we didn’t find anything about it in the bunker?”

“It was probably somewhere we wouldn’t look,” she said, “Or maybe they took it - the Brits, after the massacre,” she said, “I don’t know, it’s just a theory. But a lot of things I heard them talking about aren’t in the bunker, not where we usually look anyway.”

“Heh,” he said, “Okay, so what do we do?”

“They’re expecting me,” she said, “In two days, at a specific location,” she said, “It’s what I’m counting on, actually,” she said, “I let the time and place slip, to Henry, who let it slip to _Oliver Price_ \- if they show up,” she said, “Then I’m right. This is how they know, and they’ve been waiting on this for almost sixty years.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” she said, “So I’mma be there, I’ll show up, exactly how I said I would,” she said, “And I’ll be wearing this -” She pulled out a small plastic tag from her coat. “Found this, I think it’s more reliable than a phone for GPS. They can take the phone, but they won’t know to look for this. You gotta sync it with your phone, though.”

He licked his lips, getting his phone out. “So what, you’re bait? Again?”

“They want me alive, Sam,” she said, “And I wanna know what they’re planning.”

“And?”

“And burn the bodies of every last one of them,” she said, shrugging. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“Hardly,” he said, “But what about Lucifer?”

“I’ve got Dean working something,” she said, “That is, if Claire delivered the message.”

“I did.”

Both Winchesters turned around. “Jesus fucking Christ, _kid_ ,” Y/N said, “I told you to stay out of this. Just deliver the message to Sam, and that’s _it._ Go _home._ ”

“You can’t just do that,” she said, “I thought you were _dead_ , and you come back, text me from a burner, and expect me to, what, just follow orders, and go home? Yeah. _No._ ”

“Claire.”

“I’ve done my end of the deal,” Claire said, “Now it’s your turn.”

Y/N took a deep breath, closing her eyes. “Fine,” she said, “Go back to the bunker. Look for any papers, any notes, that have my name in them, or talk about hybrid souls. Could be in incident reports,” she said, “Or daily logs. Or maybe if there are any more files on what they got from Oliver Price, the psychic.”

Claire raised an eyebrow. “Desk duty?” she said, “ _Seriously?_ ”

“It’s half the work,” she said, “More than, even. Sam won’t have the time to do that, and Dean’s probably gonna make Cas tag along on his trip, so it’s just you, kid. It’s on you to help.”

She considered it. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

“Good,” Y/N said, turning to her brother, and fishing out a piece of paper from the pocket of her dress. “Take this.”

He opened the yellow piece of paper. Another set of coordinates. “What’s this?”

“Not sure,” she said, “But Henry gave it to me. Said it was a family thing. Don’t go there, there’s no time,” she said, “But just keep it. I don’t want to lose it to the Brits.”

He took a photo on his phone, synced it with his cloud account, and tucked it in his pocket. “Okay,” he said, “Now, you said you have a plan?”

\--

**Two days ago**

“What is this place?”

Dean unlocked the door, pulling it up. “One of Dad’s old storage units,” he answered Cas, demon knife in hand, ready to slice any son of a bitch who thought this could be a good idea to ambush him.

But no one was there.

“Why didn’t you clear it out?” the angel asked, pulling the door closed half-way, “Now that you have a permanent place to stay.”

Dean shrugged. “I dunno, man,” he said, “There’s so damn many of those all across the country, and we rarely ever need anything from them. I don’t think it’s worth the gas.”

“So what are we looking for?”

“A Men of Letters box, apparently,” Dean said. According to the note, he was to go to that place, and look for ‘a box with the MoL crest.’ He dug around a little, through the mess, and the angel did, too. He expected it to be in plain sight, especially if it was actually Y/N who left it, as implied by the message. But, no, nothing obvious. Not on the shelf, or the table -

“Is this it?”

Dean turned on his heel, inspecting the medium-sized box in Cas’ hand. It was dusty, though, like it had spent years collecting said dust. Weird. He’d never noticed it before, so it couldn’t be John’s, could it? He took it from the angel, and looked for how to open it.

A number lock. Five digits.

If this really was Y/N, if the message wasn’t some sort of a trap, he knew what they would be. The same five numbers they’ve used whenever they needed, as a password, or in general. 11-2-83. And, sure enough, it unlocked.

Fuck. Fuck, she was alive.

He set it on the table, and they stood over it, both of them. Dean lifted the lid, tilting back, just in case, but it was just a few bottles, a couple of packs, a weird-looking rock, and a note. Cas got some of them out, inspected them, with a frown on his face. “How…”

“What?”

“Those are spell ingredients,” he said, “From all over the world. It’s very rare that anyone can come across all of those, except maybe a few witches.”

“Or the Men of Letters.”

“I suppose.”

Dean snatched the note out, and started reading. The paper was yellowed, but the writing was clear. He knew that handwriting anywhere, and that signature. Maybe the pen was different, more elegant, more composed, but he knew it was her handwriting.

_Hey Dean,_

_Can’t explain in details, but take these ingredients, and head back to the bunker. Don’t cast the spell anywhere else, it’s too dangerous, okay? In the back of this paper, you’ll find an incantation. I can’t tell you what it does, in case someone else finds this first._

_You’ll need some blood, a few drops. It has to be you or Sam, otherwise it won’t work, and the ingredients will be wasted. It’s how it’s been designed._

_Take care._

_I’ll see you soon._

_Y/N_

\--

**Today**

“This isn’t what we _agreed to!_ ”

Mick shut the office door. “What, exactly, did you expect, Mary?” he asked, “She’s going to be fine, the soul extraction procedure isn’t fatal. At most, she’ll lose some blood,” he said, “But we have a medical team for that exact purpose.”

“You can’t just take her _soul_ and expect me to be okay with it.”

“Honestly,” Mick said, “You being okay with it is a _bonus_. We don’t need your permission, we never did,” he said, “But you were there, and willing to help, that’s all.”

Mary’s lips parted with a silent protest.

“Besides,” Mick said, “We could be doing something else _entirely._ ”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we could be testing her so-called immortality,” he said, “We could try to kill her, and if it doesn’t work, we try again, and _again, and again,_ until it _sticks._

“This is what we do, Mary. We rid the world of everything that is that powerful, that’s that _evil_ ,” he said, “Especially that she could turn into a demon, any second now, that is more powerful and more motivated than _any_ demon we’ve ever seen. Not a Knight of Hell, not a Prince of Hell, no. More, _much_ more. Turned, _designed_ by Lucifer _himself._ You think we’d just let that pass?”

“I thought you said you had Lucifer under control.”

“Who knows how long _that_ will last,” Mick said, “Don’t be so emotional, Mary, please. This is the best solution, and you know it. For her, for _everyone._ ”

She was about to argue, again, when her head felt ten times heavier, and she had to lean on the wall for support. The room was swirling, blurring, and she could barely stay standing. She was going to pass out any second now and just -

“What did you _do?_ ”

But Mick didn’t answer, and she had to blink, and focus, to make out the scene in front of her - Mick, passed out, on the floor. Adrenaline kicked in, and she tried to open the door, to see if there was something going on with the rest of the people there. But it didn’t last very long.

Her vision spotted, faded, and her knees hit the ground.

 


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**One day ago**

“Dammit, Sam.”

Dean clicked his phone shut, leaning on the palms of his hands, elbows propped on the library table. Cas slid in the chair next to him, sliding the ignored sandwich towards him, but Dean’s focus was still on the box in front of him, the one they got from his dad’s old storage unit. Cas sunk in his seat, almost engulfed by his trench coat. “I’m sure Sam is fine,” he said, “Just busy. He did let Claire in last night.”

Claire looked up from the book in front of her, but stayed as silent as she’d been since they got back. No amount of _for fuck’s sake_ s or bribes would get her to talk, and Dean was too tired to try again. “Yeah, that’s the problem, Cas,” Dean said, “He’s here, but he’s not. I don’t know what he’s up to.”

“We could’ve involved him earlier.”

Dean elected to ignore the angel’s _I-told-you-so_ , and instead opened the box again. “Think we should see what this is?”

“Well,” Cas said, “Judging from the incantation, it’s some sort of a summoning spell. I’m just not sure what _for_ exactly,” he said, “I’ve never come across such wording before.”

“What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t make much sense in Enochian,” Cas explained, “The literal translation to English is something like _the person that is hanged is not scared of colors._ ”

Claire frowned, slipping out her phone.

“What?”

“Like I said,” Cas said, “It doesn’t make much sense.”

“ _He who is well hanged in this world needs to fear no colors,_ ” Claire said, holding up her Google search, “It’s from Twelfth Night.”

“Twelfth what?”

“Shakespeare.”

“And?”

“I dunno,” she said, “Does it ring any bells?”

“Nope.”

“I’m just wondering why someone would translate a Shakespearean quote into Enochian,” Cas said, “Why not just leave it in English? Or translate it to Latin?”

“We could wait for our resident nerd,” Dean said, “If he’d pick up the damn phone.”

“Or,” Claire said, “We could just cast the spell and see what it does.”

Dean pulled the box towards him.

“No. _No_.”

“What’s the worst that could happen, Cas?”

“Oh, I don’t _know_ ,” Cas said, “It could be a trick. It could summon something, someone, more powerful than you or me, _here_ , inside the bunker, bypassing all the warding that is protecting this place. It could be _Lucifer’s_ work. The possibilities are endless.”

Dean shrugged. “We could do it in the dungeon.”

“You have a _dungeon?_ ”

Dean nodded. “This place is awesome,” he said, standing up, “You have no idea. You in?”

“Hell yeah.”

“ _Dean._ ”

“Oh come on, Cas,” he said, “If I stay one more minute in there, waiting, I’m going to need to punch something to death. Let’s do this.”

“This exact mentality is what gets you Winchesters killed,” he said, “Every single time.”

Dean just shrugged, guiding the younger hunter down the hallway, through the secret passage, and to the dark dungeon. “This is where you were the other day,” Claire said, “With the demon.”

“Yeah.”

“Badass.”

Dean grinned to himself, grabbing one of the copper bowls from the shelf and putting it inside the devil’s trap, pouring all the ingredients inside. “Hey, a little help here?”

“Sure.”

“Can you grab that flask there - yup,” he said, “Holy oil.”

Cas sat down on one of the chairs, his frustration with the two of them radiating, but silent. Claire grabbed the flask and turned to Dean. “Now what?”

“Pour it in a circle,” he said, “Along the outer circle here, and light it up.”

“With you inside?”

“Someone’s gotta cast the spell,” he said, slicing his palm with his knife, and letting the blood drop into the bowl. Once he could feel the heat from the fire, he turned to the angel. “Don’t tell me you’re not at least curious.”

Cas narrowed his eyes at him.

“ _Fine_ ,” Dean said, “Just give me the paper, then.”

And he did. Dean read the incantation, and watched as his blood boiled, and the entire place _shook._ He hopped out of the circle of fire, and the three of them watched as the bowl shook, and reddened, and _beamed_ with a light so bright, so _golden_ , it was almost blinding. Cas was quick to sense this, and stepped between the two of them, hands on both their eyes, until the light dimmed, and the bowl disappeared, replaced by something else entirely.

“Seriously?”

Cas held his hand up and moved it down, and the fire went out with his movement. Dean stared at the piece of metal like it was the weirdest thing he’d ever seen. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“An angel blade?” Claire said, “All of this, for an angel blade.”

Cas crouched down, picked it up.

“I swear,” Dean said, “I’m making her pay me back for all the gas she made me waste.”

“The gas was most definitely not a waste, Dean.”

“Why?” Claire asked, “What is it?”

“This - this might be the closest we’ve ever come to actually killing Lucifer,” he said, “Once and for all.”

“Cas, you don’t mean…”

“This is an archangel blade,” Cas said, “Gabriel’s, to be specific.”

\--

**Today**

Your chest stung.

Ketch dug the device in, every pin on its head tearing through your flesh, and you grunted. You could feel your blood drip down, between your breasts, over the red fabric of your dress, and you heaved against the hand that was steadying your face, keeping you down. The son of a bitch didn’t even blink, didn’t hesitate for a split second, before he did this.

There was no clock there, no telling what had happened to the plan you’d laid out with Sam. It could be minutes until they came, or hours. Or maybe it wasn’t good enough, solid enough. Maybe they anticipated them, had them, and you were trapped here, under this psychopath's mercy, while he attempted to extract your soul.

You gathered every speck of will inside you, every trace of power. Everything you learned about what you are, what you could do, both from instinct, and from Sinclair’s studies, but nothing seemed to work. The warding was too detailed, too specific, too articulate. After all, they had sixty years to perfect it, to study it, to go through every loophole and every possibility.

You only had a few months.

Sinclair’s interest in you was limited to your power, what you could do, how you could help _him,_ but everything he theorized, everything he discovered, he told to you; the more you knew, the better control you were in, and the better control, the more useful you were to him; the more you could help him collect spell ingredients, make deals for rare supernatural antiquities. So you knew. You knew the amount of damage you could do, the amount of hurt you could inflict.

But none of that mattered while you were trapped.

Something happened though. Something that made him stop for a second, and press his earpiece in, tap it. Once, twice. Nothing, not from his facial expression anyway. He pushed your head back, his thumb pressed to your throat. “You move,” he said, “One, tiny movement, and I’ll go about extracting your soul the old fashioned way.”

You clenched your jaw, your bruises protesting.

“Good girl,” he said, stepping back, cleaning his bloodied palm and knuckles off with a towel, before heading towards the door. He pushed down on the handle, looking over his shoulder. “You know,” he said, “This could be a lot more fun if you let it.”

Your fists clenched behind your back.

He shrugged, walking out, and you let your shoulders drop. You didn’t know what was worse, what he was doing, or having to sit through it all. Something crashed outside, and you heard grunts, and a gunshot, and _footsteps,_ approaching, hurrying, stumbling -

“Hey, hey. I got you. I got you.”

You breathed. For the first time, you felt, you _breathed._ “Sammy.”

Your brother brushed your hair away from your sweaty face, kneeling down in front of you, fingers merely touching the metal device clutching to your chest. “What the hell is this?”

“I - I dunno,” you said, “Something - they want my soul, they want to get my _soul_.” You swallowed. “Get it out.”

“What?”

“Take it out,” you said, “Just - pull it.”

“You’re _bleeding_ , what if you just -”

“I’ll be fine,” you said, “It’s not as deep as it looks -”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

The words must’ve struck some sort of a nerve, because Sam recoiled, like he was touching acid. Behind him, Ketch stood, Dean gripping him by the shoulders, gun pressed to his head. You wanted to smile at your brother, you _did_ , but it must’ve come out wrong, because he looked like someone was gutting him the entire time.

“The pins,” Ketch said, “They curl after they’re inserted. If you rip it out, you’ll do some serious damage. I can take it out, if you want.”

Dean pressed his gun tighter to his skull. “Sam, please.”

“No,” Sam said. “Not now.”

“Fine,” Dean grumbled, “Cas?”

Cas manifested out of _thin air_ , pressed two fingers to Ketch’s forehead, and Dean let him drop, kicking him out of the way to you. The angel held onto the device, looking you straight in the eyes. “This is going to hurt.”

Sam looked the other way, but kept a hand on your shoulder as Cas gripped it and _ripped - fuck - fuck, fuck -_

“You’re an angel.”

“I know,” Castiel said, smug, as he inspected the wound. “It hasn’t healed all the way, this is still difficult, but you’re not bleeding anymore.”

Sam took the collar of your dress in his hand and pulled it a little. “Are those old?”

You knew he was referring to the Enochian scars you’d recently gained. _Small price for power_ , Sinclair had said. “Couple of months old.”

“We should get going,” Dean reminded you, “Sam, you got the warding?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, scratching at the paint with his pocket knife, just enough for you to feel like you were awake all the way again. “S’that enough?”

You felt your restraints heat against you for a second, before you snapped them open. “Yup,” you said, “You got everyone?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, “Cas double-checked.”

“What about Mary?”

“She’s in the car,” Dean said, “Once we’re -”

“No,” you said, “No. She has to be with the others.”

“Y/N.”

“ _No_ ,” you insisted, “She’s the one they sent to _get me_. You didn’t - you didn’t see her, Dean,” you said, “I’m sorry, but she has to be with them.”

“Please,” Dean said, “For me. _Please.”_

For someone with a gun in one hand, and a knife in the other, standing over the unconscious body of the man he was just asking for permission to kill, he looked an awful lot like he did when he was seventeen. When he’d beg you to take his side _just this one time_ , to have his back, when John couldn’t, when he _wouldn’t_. To be his teammate, his partner, to just _trust him on this._

“I don’t trust her,” you said, “She brought me here so they could _take my soul_ , Dean, do you get that?”

“I know,” he said, “I know. But, just, please. I just got her back. _We_ just got her back.”

You licked your lips, buttoning your clothes. “That’s not Mom, Dean. Not really.”

“Please.”

“Fine,” you said, “Okay. Sam?”

Sam handed you the gun you’d agreed he’d bring you. Cas leaned down, and was about to pick Ketch up when he decided it wasn’t worth it, and just dragged him by the collar instead. Dean held his gun up, just in case, as the four of you made it to the meeting room.

According to the plan, everyone that was in there - the guards, the operatives, the researchers, everyone - was knocked out by another spell, and tied up. You sat on the table, gun dangling from your finger, as Sam blew the powder. _“Evigilate.”_

They started to stir, some of them waking up already, taking in their surroundings, testing their restraints. Castiel pulled Ketch up, Dean restraining him, too, before he woke him up as well. “ _Hi_ ,” you said, “Welcome _back_.”

Mick looked up at you from his position on the floor, his back to his office door. “I see you’ve read a book.”

You crossed your legs. “Here’s how this is gonna go,” you said, “We have your blood, every single one of you, over there -” Sam held up the metal container. “Along with some herbs,” you said, “Some bones, a feather here and there, so all I have to do is say _this -_ ” You grabbed a pen and a paper, and started writing down the Latin, before passing it to Mick. “Can you read this?”

His lips paled. “A binding spell.”

“ _Good nerd_ ,” you said, “And what does that do again? For the people in the back.”

“Everyone knows what a binding spell is.”

“I don’t,” one of the guards said.

Ketch was the one who answered this time. “It means she has control over our souls.”

“Yeah,” you said, “That’s right. Except I made a few changes,” you said, “Mick? Thoughts?”

“You’re not gonna get away with this.”

“ _Thoughts._ ”

“We’ll go after you,” he said, “Every single one of you, and we won’t stop. Your family,” he said, “Your friends. Everyone you’ve ever cared for, is _done._ ”

Dean moved, but you held a hand up. “You’ve probably skipped a Latin class or two,” you said, “Because if you do that, if you, or anyone else, with your knowledge, comes after _me_ , or my brothers,” you said, “Or even within a three-mile radius of anyone I even _slightly_ know with the intention to harm them,” you said, “You’re done. You’re dead. Just like that.”

“You can’t.”

“ _Watch me_ , you son of a bitch,” you said, “Why else do you think I haven’t killed you already? I know this has been in the works for a _long time_ ,” you said, “I know how high the stakes are for you, for your elders, in Britain. So, sure,” you said, “If you want everyone else in this room to die, go ahead, send someone else after me.

“And if your elders don’t give a shit about you,” you said, “Which, let’s face it, with the way you operate? Possible. They’ll come here,” you said, “They’ll send their minions after me, you’ll die, and then I’ll kill _them_ ,” you said, “I’ll kill every last one of them, and you _know it._ Hell, if I have to take a plane to London, if I have to find every Men of Letters bunker that ever _existed_ for the sole purpose of wiping you out, I’ll do it.”

Ketch snickered. “And to think you thought you were too good for this,” he said, “For us. And yet here you are,” he said, “Threatening innocent people, humans, who are just following a mission, the mission _you’ve_ worked for your entire life,” he said, “You’re a _killer,_ ” he said, “And soon enough, you’ll be a full-on _monster.”_

“Innocent people, huh?”

He pointed to the guards. “Private security,” he said, “And those - doctors. Doctors we brought so you wouldn’t bleed to death. And this woman over there?” he said, “Not even a full-on member. Just a PhD student we recently recruited for this mission specifically. And what you’re saying is,” he said, “If I were to come after you, they’d all _die_?”

“It’s your choice, really.”

“Oh, that old thing again,” he said, laughing, “I’ve used that line so many times, but do you think it’s true, really?”

“We can always go about this the old fashioned way,” Dean said, his finger sliding back to the trigger, and shooting Ketch in the knee.

At the sound, at the blood, a few people screamed, and one of them was heaving so loudly you thought she might actually be having a panic attack. Mick averted his eyes, flinching. One of the operatives held his colleague’s hand, who appeared to be frozen himself, and you felt cold again. Like that day, that first day, on the first mission, when it all felt too clinical, too sleazy, too detached.

“Tell me why. _Mick._ ”

“What?”

“ _Why?”_ you asked, “Why the missions? Why drag me through all of this? Why drag Sam and Dean?” you asked, “If you knew, this entire time, you could’ve just hunted me. Could’ve just taken me.”

“We weren’t sure,” he admitted, “We thought the intel was wrong, when you died, seven years ago. We thought maybe there was an error, or your name was actually codename for something else, because you and Lucifer were no longer a problem. We didn’t know you’d come back. But you did. And even then, we weren’t sure.”

“So the missions?”

“We knew you if you had any powers, you had no clue,” he said, “If you didn’t use it against Toni. If you were just going on normal hunts,” he said, “So we tried to test it. To test you.”

“The werewolf.”

“Yes,” he said, “We had them under a mind control spell.”

“And the witch?”

“It appeared that you weren’t really in control, not from the way you behaved,” he said, “So we enlisted the help of one of our witches. She said your body couldn’t handle the power, and that she could do something about it.”

“But you only wanted my soul.”

“We also wanted to know how it could be used,” he said, “We didn’t really get much from the Americans, you know. Only the basics. Now please,” he said, “ _Please._ We can reach an agreement, without anyone getting hurt.”

“An agreement?”

“We have one with hell,” he said, “We have one with the angels in Britain. I don’t see why we can’t have one with you.”

“That would imply I need something from you,” you said, “But I don’t. You’re the ones at my mercy.”

“Are we?” he asked, “Because I can see it. You haven’t turned yet,” he said, “You don’t wanna kill us, not really. You just want this to be over. And it can be.”

“So, what?” you asked, “I let you go, and you go back to your country? Leave us alone?” you asked, “Abandon this mission? And the one to recruit American hunters? Do you expect me to believe that?”

“We’ll sign a contract, in blood,” he said, “Just as binding as the spell. But innocent people don’t have to die.”

“If you don’t intend to break the contract,” you said, “Then why worry about the spell at all?”

“Because,” he said, “The spell makes us liable for the actions of people like _him_.” He pointed to Ketch. “And even the elders wouldn’t take that bet.”

“Flattering.”

“Oh give me a break, you psychopath,” Mick said, “You’re our attack dog, always have, always will be. We’re not liable for you.”

“What about your code?”

Mick shook his head. “No one will come after you if you kill a member in self-defense. How does that sound?”

“I need to hear it from your elders.”

“Fine,” he said, “Of course. Anything. We can call them right now if you’d like.”

You glanced back at Sam, who nodded. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

\--

The entire ride back to the bunker was silent.

Mary was still passed out, waiting to be awaken by the spell, which Dean thought would be best performed in the safety of the bunker, away from everything. You were too numb to argue, too engrossed in your own thoughts to bring yourself to think of the hot mess of a family you had right about now. Sam sat between you and her, in the backseat, occasionally asking if you were okay, if you wanted to stop on the way home, but _yeah, I’m fine, and no, let’s just go, and please just leave me alone for a second._

It was easier thinking about this, planning this, when you were with Sinclair; he was too out of this world, too isolated, for anything that happened there to feel real, to feel critical. But their screams were real. Their panic attacks were real. Their short breaths were real. And for a second, just one split second, you wondered if they were _right._

Because you didn’t see it the last time. You didn’t feel yourself slipping into the powers the demon blood gave you. You acknowledged it, on a conscious level, but you didn’t feel it; hell, you hardly felt anything back then. You could be just as easily wrong this time, too, and Sam and Dean, and Cas - they could just be playing along because they were tired, because something broke in them these past seven years like it broke in you.

What if Mick didn’t offer what he did? What if his call to the elders wasn’t verified by Castiel to be the absolute truth? What if they just resisted? Would you have done it, really? Would you have bound their souls to you, killed them if anyone came after you?

The terrifying thing is that you couldn’t answer that question, not definitively.

Claire was still in the bunker, but by the time you came back, she was asleep. You were about to go into your room when Sam stopped you by the arm. “Maybe not tonight,” he said, “You can sleep in my room, or one of the empty ones. We cleaned one out for Jody when she was here.”

“Why?”

“There’s still some blood there, and the mattress is pretty much burned out.”

“Oh. Okay,” you said, “Which room was Jody’s?”

He showed you there, Dean straight on your heels. “I put her in her room. Should we wait until the morning?”

“Just give me some head’s up,” you said, “And I’ll go.”

“Go?”

“Yeah,” you told Dean, throwing yourself on the bed, “I can’t stay here. Not with her.”

“Look,” Dean said, “I get it’s complicated. Trust me, I do. But she’s still our mom. She still deserves to be heard,” he said, “Hell, you do, too.”

“Dammit, Dean.” You buried your face in your hands. “I get it, this is everything you ever wanted,” you said, “She’s your favorite person in this whole world, but that’s not my problem, okay? I’m done. Done with her, done with this entire _dynamic._ ”

“Let’s just talk in the morning -”

Dean didn’t wait for Sam to finish the sentence. “What dynamic?”

“I don’t want to be _fixed_ , Dean,” you said, “I came to you - I come to you for _help_ , but I sure as hell won’t sit back and take it while someone else makes the decision that I need to be _fixed_ to be acceptable, okay?”

“Aren’t you the one who told me to kill you if it came down to it?”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Sam breathed.

“And has it, Dean?” you asked, “Has it come down to it? Is that what you’re saying?”

He grimaced. “No,” he said, his tone softer, “What I’m saying is that this is a difficult situation.” He sat next to you. “It doesn’t make what she did right, I’m just saying, it’s not as black and white as you might think.”

“Really, Dean?” you asked, “What’s grey about not handing your daughter over to the people who want to take her soul? What’s _grey_ about beating me up until she could knock me out? I didn’t even hit back, Dean - I _couldn’t -_ I kept seeing her face, and I couldn’t bring myself to do it. But she didn’t stop, like I was some monster she was hunting that she had to subdue.”

Sam crossed his arms, leaning over the door frame, staring at his feet.

“Look, I know - I know it’s been hard,” Dean said, “Hell, I don’t even really know what happened to you, with the time travel, and all that, but do you really think the best way to deal with it is to just leave? Again?”

Right. You’d let yourself forget how it worked, how it always worked. It was selfish, you knew, to think this was all about _you_ , about how you felt about Mary, about how comfortable you were in your stay at the bunker. There were other people at stake, too, but you couldn’t help but _want_ to be selfish.

Because if you didn’t, you’d be alone, even if they were there. Even if everyone was there. But maybe, maybe you deserved it, on some level. Maybe you should be alone. Maybe it was for the best if no one encouraged you, no one played along, like what happened today.

“No, you’re right,” you mumbled, slipping under the covers. “You’re right.”

“No, fuck that,” Sam said, “Dean, I get it. I do. And we’ll talk to Mom, alright? We’ll lay it all out. But she doesn’t have to stay if she doesn’t want to.”

“We don’t quit on family, Sam.”

“God, don’t even get me _started_.”

“Tomorrow,” you said, “I wanna check out the location Henry gave me. Sam, you still got that?” He nodded. “Cool. I’ll go, check it out. Then we’ll see.”

“I’m coming with.”

“Sam.”

“I’m _coming with_ ,” Sam told Dean, “It’s a couple of days, we’ll clear our heads, maybe even give Claire a ride home, if she wants.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “Yeah, that sounds good.”

\--

“This isn’t _good_ , this is _amazing._ ”

“Just,” you said, “Careful not to get any grease on the seat, okay?”

Claire scoffed, munching down on her burger. “So, tell me,” she said, “Not that I mind, or anything, but why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Keeping me,” she said, to which Sam snickered, “I’m serious. You could’ve told me to get my car, and just leave me in Sioux Falls.”

“You stuck around for the hard part,” you said, pulling the handbrake, “This is the fun part.”

“Do you know what your grandpa left you?”

“Nope.”

You got out of the car, Sam right behind you. Claire fumbled a little, with the sandwich in her hands, but followed you eventually. It was someone’s house, by the looks of it. Not abandoned, either; from the lawn, and the liveliness that echoed off the walls of this place, there was no way it was just an old family house.

“Are we sure…?”

Sam shrugged, and knocked on the door. A minute later, a man, maybe in his early thirties, opened the door. “Can I help you?”

“Uh, yeah,” Sam said, “I’m Sam Winchester. This is gonna sound weird,” he said, “But we’ve recently come across our grandfather’s will, and it mentioned something about coming here…”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “What were your names again?”

“Sam Winchester,” Sam said, “This is Y/N Winchester. And this is Claire.”

“And your grandfather’s name?”

“Henry Winchester.”

“Okay,” he said, “Would you mind stepping back a little? Yeah just - a bit to the right - yeah.” Devil’s trap. “Christo.” When none of you revealed yourselves to be a demon, he relaxed. “Okay, wait here.”

“Weird dude.”

“Weird _day_.”

Five minutes later, he re-emerged, this time with a box in his hand. “To be honest,” he said, “I was starting to think it was a prank.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I bought the house five years ago,” he explained, “It came with this box, said to give this to someone with your exact description, called Y/N Winchester, somewhere around this year. Hey, do you mind if I take a picture with you guys?”

“Why?”

“My husband would never believe me if I told him you actually showed up.”

“Sure, Weird Dude,” Claire said, “Why not?”

After the picture, and the declined invitation to coffee, you took the box, and headed to the car. It was a typical Men of Letters box, one of those that were bound with a spell that only opened with someone’s blood. It sounded like something Henry would do. You stuck your finger in the pin, and hissed when it drew blood, but the box opened, on the hood of your car.

“Wow,” Sam said.

There were a couple of books there, some papers, and files, as well as pictures. Of Henry with your grandma, with John, with _you._ But on top of it all, was a journal, so similar to the one John had, but the inside had your initials on it. You were about to close it, put it back in the box, when Sam stopped you, finger on the first page.

“There’s some writing.” He took the journal in his hand. “Oh. Holy shit. Holy _shit._ ”

“What?”

“ _Dear Y/N,_ ” Sam read, “ _It has been a year since you left. A year that was full of what you would call drama, but it was fruitful nevertheless. I’ll spare you the details here, because you can find them all in the files in this same box but I think you’ll be excited to know..._ ”

“What?” Claire pressed.

Sam held a finger up. “ _I think you’ll be excited to know that we’ve found a cure.”_  



	16. Chapter Sixteen

“Is this _new_?”

You ran your fingers over the smooth, cold wood of the table. “ _Yup_.” You threw yourself on the chair, pushing the other one towards your brother. “Those, too.”

Sam put Henry’s box down, taking the seat next to you, eyes scanning every inch of what used to be Bobby’s home. Your home. “It’s gonna take a lot of work,” he said, “If you want to live here.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you said, eyebrows raised.

“No?”

“Nope,” you said, “None.”

He grinned as Claire walked in, pizza boxes in hand. “You know,” she said, “At this rate, we’ll all be too fat to run after monsters by the time we make it back to Lebanon.”

You snickered, hunching over to reach your cooler, getting out three beers. There was a brief moment where Claire side-eyed Sam before she slowly took a bottle from you, but neither of you said anything. Why would you? She was almost twenty-one, wasn’t she?

“So it’s only Dean, then.”

“Only Dean what?”

“With a stick up his butt,” Claire said.

It was Sam’s turn to laugh. You propped your legs up on the table. “Claire,” you said, “ _Sweetie_. Every Winchester that has ever existed has some sort of stick up their butt.”

She sat down, flipping the first box’s lid up. “Different sizes, then?”

“Different _types,_ ” Sam said, “I’m sure someone’s written a paper about that somewhere.”

You raised your bottle to them, a smile tugging on your lips.

“You laugh,” Claire said, “But it’s probably literally true.”

“What?”

“Oh God, right, you don’t _know._ ”

“Know what?”

“She doesn’t _know?”_

“ _Guys.”_

“The books,” Sam clarified, “There are books out there. About us.”

You set the bottle down, waiting for a punchline that didn’t come. “You’re not serious, are you?”

Claire stuffed her face with her pepperoni pizza. “They’re called _Supernatural_ ,” she said, “Someone called Carver Edlund wrote them.”

The name sounded familiar, but you couldn’t place where you heard it before. “Who the fuck is that?”

“Remember Chuck?” Sam asked.

“The prophet?” you asked, “Who told you where I was when…”

“Yeah,” Sam said, “That’s him. _Also -_ ”

“There’s an _also._ ”

“He’s God.”

You rolled your eyes, relaxing back into your seat. “ _Right._ ”

Claire stopped mid-chew. “He is?”

“I swear,” Sam said. At your face, he pressed, “I _swear_ I’m not fucking with you. It’s true. You can ask Dean, or Cas.”

You coughed out some of the beer in your mouth on the back of your hand. “So _God_ wrote books about _us?_ ”

“Yup.”

“Well,” Claire said, “More about Sam and Dean, I think. I didn’t read them.”

Sam frowned. “No,” he said, “She’s in there, too. There’s a separate book, just about her.”

“Do you mean the spin-off?” Claire said, “But that was unofficial, just a rumor.”

“You know a lot for a person who didn’t read them,” you noted.

She rolled her eyes. “Hard not to when a lot of the lore sites actively reference the books themselves.”

You slid your pizza box towards you. “So what does it say about us?”

“ _Everything_ ,” Sam said. “And I do mean everything.”

“Sounds bad.”

“Even worse than it sounds,” Sam said, “Trust me. I have read some things I did not need to ever know about Dean. _Ever._ ”

Claire made a gagging sound, to which Sam nodded. You fiddled with the food, cutting off the crust. “So, what does it say?” you asked, your tone level, “The spin-off.”

He hesitated. For a split second, yes, but you caught it. “I dunno,” he said, “I didn’t read it.”

You dipped the crust in the barbeque sauce. “Were you busy grading papers?”

He blinked. “Uh, what?”

“When you were teaching,” you clarified, “At that community college.”

Claire eyed both of you. “You were a professor? _When?_ ”

“A few years ago,” he said, gulping down on his beer, “I’mma - uh - go get my phone from the car. I think I left it there.”

You watched as he basically ran out, Claire following him just as intently. “What’s up with _him_?”

You grimaced, now just cutting the food down, not really eating it. You were going to have to ask him sooner or later, you knew, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it just now. Not just because Claire was there, but also because you weren’t really sure what to ask, what to say. You didn’t know exactly what had happened back there, at the hospital, what he _thought_ , but you knew it was bad enough for him to think you were a hallucination, and one that was going to hurt him at that. It was bad enough for him to call for Castiel’s help, desperate, afraid.

It was bad enough to lie.

“So. Claire.”

“Yes.”

“What’s next for you?” you asked, “After we head back to the bunker. You staying?”

She shook her head. “Not _forever_ ,” she said, “Just, you know, to see this through.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Are you kidding?” she said, “I want to. What we did the other day, prepping for that British Men of Letters thing…”

You set your feet down, just as Sam walked back, holding his phone up as if to prove what he was doing. “You actually _like_ this crappy ass job.”

She shrugged. “It has its moments.”

“Just, you know,” you said, “Keep your options open.”

Sam scoffed.

“What?”

“I went to _Stanford_ ,” he said, “That didn’t help.”

“I don’t think your - _our -_ situation really applies to Claire here,” you said, “No?”

He ran his hand through his hair. “Oh, yeah,” he said, “Yeah. It’s different, with you, I think. She’s right. You should keep your options open.”

“Careful with the enthusiasm,” Claire said, “I might get too excited.”

“No, I mean it,” Sam said, sincerely, “It is different with you. You’re…”

“He’s going to say normal, isn’t he?”

“Well, yeah,” he said, “Or, you know, as normal as a hunter could get. Plus,” he said, “You have Jody. She’s sane.”

Claire smiled. “Yeah,” she said, “She’s great.”

“And you have _us_ ,” you said, “Whenever you need three people to bench you all at once.”

“ _True_.”

Sam finally got to what must’ve now been cold pizza. “What about you?”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “What about me?”

“What do you want to do?” he asked, “When all of this is over. I mean, we have a cure.”

You crossed your legs. “I guess,” you said, “We still have to study that, see what it says. Could be nothing. Could be impossible.”

His bottle clinked on the table. “I mean, yeah, sure,” he said, “But what if it is,” he said, “And this whole deal is over. Like you just came back,” he said, “And everything was fine. What would you do?”

“What I did before I found out,” you answered, “Hunt.”

“Yeah?”

You clutched to the cold glass. “Yeah, I guess,” you said, “I mean, it’s the one thing I know how to do.”

“That’s not true,” Claire said, “You can always drive adrenaline junkies.”

“Oh come on,” you said, “I don’t drive that fast.”

“I,” she said, “And every traffic law that has ever existed in the United States of America, _beg_ to differ.”

“Laws are _guidelines._ ”

“Kind of mandatory.”

“This is your opinion,” you argued.

“Seriously though,” Sam said, “Didn’t you work at that gun store for a while?”

You shrugged.

“You could also do something like private security,” Sam suggested, “Or study something, if you want.” You scoffed, and he looked kind of offended. “Hey, why not?”

“Sammy,” you said, “I didn’t even get my _GED_.”

“ _So?”_ he asked, “You can still get it, if you want. Or you can take courses online, there are plenty of those,” he said, “Or we can fake it, if you want. It’s not like we don’t have to fake pretty much everything else.”

“I dunno.”

“I think the private security thing sounds fun,” Claire said, “Or you could teach.”

“Teach _what?”_

“Hunting,” she said, “You could carry on your Men of Letters legacy, or whatever.”

You rolled your eyes. “Sam’s a lot better at that, if anyone should do it, it should be him,” you said, “And Dean’s much better at fighting, shooting, you name it. It’s actually a shame they won’t teach _you._ ”

“ _Hey_ ,” Sam said, “Who said we wouldn’t?”

“ _Would you?_ ” Claire asked.

“Yeah, of course,” he said, “Whenever you want. If we’re not too busy causing another apocalypse, I’d be happy to help. I’m sure Dean wouldn’t mind, either.”

She finished her beer. “Cool,” she said, “Awesome.”

It was for the best, you thought. Sam _was_ much better at research, at languages, hell probably even at spells, despite your intensive course with Sinclair, if only he had the proper resources, which you guessed you could ask Sinclair for in this timeline, if he kept his promise of staying young forever. And Dean could probably aim with his eyes closed at this point. _And_ he was the mastermind behind a lot of the tools you used while hunting, like the DIY EMF detector; he’d be great at teaching Claire how to DIY herself out of a sticky situation.

But it still stung, a bit. Even if you were wholly unqualified to mentor her in any way, it still stung to lose whatever brief moments of that you had.

“See?”

Sam’s face was blank, for a moment, before he spoke again. “Hey, unrelated, but you know I didn’t have a lot of time to talk to Dean before we had to go get you,” he said, “But he said something. About what you sent him to do, while we were prepping.”

“Oh yeah.”

“Is it true?” Sam asked, “We have Gabriel’s fucking _blade?”_

Your smirk was as smug as smirks could _get._ “This,” you said, “Is my legacy. I will never top that. Ever.”

“Holy shit,” Sam said, “ _How?”_

“I stole it,” you said, “Or, well, technically, Dean stole it. But I’m _so_ taking credit for that.”

“How did you even swing it?” Claire asked, “I think Cas is still in shock to this _moment._ ”

You shrugged. “I was with him, you know, _before._ I told you, I think.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, I know,” he said, “So he told you how to find it? You had a way to kill Lucifer _this whole time?”_

You frowned. “No,” you said, “Not this whole time. The way he hid his stuff, they were always in a pocket universe of some sort, and he said those would disappear after he died.”

“So how’d you get it?”

“I summoned him,” you said, “Back in ‘56. Or, well, I annoyed him until he showed up, as Loki.”

“And?”

“And he saw into my memories. He saw everything. He knew that he knew me, he knew why I’d need it. So he gave me the spell,” you said, “He said he’d keep it somewhere special, somewhere that wouldn’t disappear into the void with him,” you said, “But also that he’d personally send me back to hell if I tried to summon it before he died.”

“That son of a bitch _knew_ ,” Sam breathed, “This whole time. He knew how things would turn out.”

“More or less,” you said, “But you know how it is, with time travel; nothing’s completely guaranteed.”

He nibbled on his food. “I guess.”

“So, yeah,” you said, “I ‘fool-proofed’ the spell. Made it so it can’t be cast except by one of us, one of our bloodline, and after a certain date. Otherwise it wouldn’t have worked.”

“Oh yeah,” he said, “I read about that, in the bunker. Men of Letters used to do it a lot. Smart.”

“ _Mhm_.”

“So,” Claire said, “To recap: there’s a cure for your whole mess, we can kill the freakin’ _devil_ now, and the Brits are never going to bother you. Why aren’t we celebrating, again?”

You leaned back in your seat, spreading your arms beside you. “We’re eating pizza at Bobby’s,” you said, “This is like _prom-level_ celebration.”

“Right.”

Sam’s phone buzzed, and he grimaced at it, then put it back in his pocket. “Yeah, we, uh,” he said, “We used to do that, when we were young. Beer and pizza, all of us, with Bobby.”

“So what about Dean?” she asked, “I know, it’s none of my business, but I’ve been with him these past couple of weeks. It’s been _intense._ Even more so than usual.”

You licked your lips. “It’s complicated.”

Sam stayed silent at that, clicking away on his phone instead.

“Aha.”

You sprung to your feet, rolling your bottle between your palms. Everything was so fragile, so thoroughly destroyed, whoever burnt this place down knew what they were doing. But it was still there, all the cracks and all the dents, even lesser-burned places, where Bobby’s stuff used to be, before they were transferred to the bunker, you thought. “Do we know anyone who can take a look at this place?”

Sam didn’t look up from his phone. “Huh?”

“Like, an engineer,” you said, “Someone who can assess the damage to the structure itself. Did you ever get that done?”

Sam shook his head. “No, at least I don’t _think_ so,” he said, “We had to go under the radar for about a year when this happened, and then Dean ended up in Purgatory, and we’ve always sort of lived in the Impala, really. And then the bunker happened.” He paused. “But maybe Bobby did. I dunno. Ask Dean.”

“You wanna fix it?”

You shrugged. “Seems disrespectful to just leave it as it is.”

“She wants to live here.”

“Yeah, you go around spreading that around,” you said, “Give Dean a heart attack while you’re at it, will you?”

You expected him to laugh, or to roll his eyes, but all he did was say, “I think Dean would be more than fine with this.”

“ _Please.”_

“I’m serious,” he said, “I’m not saying it’s going to be smooth, but if it’s what you want - it’s still Bobby’s, dude,” he said, “It’s not like you’re moving to Europe.”

“Greece is actually pretty neat.”

“When have you ever -” He paused. “Gabriel.”

“Gabriel.”

“Were you - what - _friends?_ ” Sam asked.

You frowned. “I dunno,” you said, “I guess? But not really,” you said, “He kept me safe, hidden. We played a lot.”

“ _Oo_.”

You made a face at Claire. “I mean, you know,” you said, “He likes games, he likes to create little universes, play tricks. So that’s what we did, for the most part. When he was around.”

“ _Sure,_ Jan.”

“Jan who?”

Claire laughed at that, so hard she had to wipe a tear. “You’re supposed to know this one!” she said, “Come on!”

You looked at Sam for help, but he’d been sucked into his phone again. Shrugging her comment off, you turned around the table, until you were in front of Henry’s box. It was tempting to open it, but it felt so wrong right now, like it would suck you out of _this_ , all of it. Even if it was just pizza and beer in the remains of your childhood home.

“We can take a look,” Sam said, not looking up from his texting. “It won’t hurt.”

“I just,” you said, “I wanna know if it’s the real deal.”

Claire averted her gaze, but said nothing. Sam only hummed in acknowledgment. So you opened it, again. This time, reaching for the thickest file in there, the one that had a note taped to it that said _Start here._ You leaned on the wall behind you, letting it open on your forearm. The Men of Letters had a system, where they summarized all the points they deemed relevant in the first one or two pages, and then expanded in later pages, or even files.

The first word was _Confidential._

“If you’re going to read it,” Claire said, “You might as well do it out loud. Don’t keep us waiting.”

“Uh, yeah,” you said, “Sure. Here goes nothing.”

Sam, at this point, switched his phone off, and put it back in his pocket. “Go ahead.”

“ _Anyone who is reading this must already have the necessary context. If you don’t, please leave this folder in the following P.O. Box, and it will find its way back to its rightful owner. Do not attempt to -”_ You skipped over the warning disclaimer part. “Okay, here it is. _After a year of extensive research, detailed in this folder, we believe that, in brief, the solution to untangling two souls is a spell, directed at one specific soul, that will use the power of this soul to evict the other out of the shared host body._

“ _The ingredients are quite rare, but most of them are in the possession of the Men of Letters quite regularly. The ones that are not are detailed in this report, and the ones attached to it, including contacts that could be used to get them, or, in some cases, ways to locate them._

“ _However, the spell itself should be quite simple to cast, once all the ingredients are in place. It might be painful, as matters with the soul usually are, but any pain is thought to be temporary, and should cause no permanent physical damage.”_

“Physical?” Sam asked.

“ _The main difficulty we are yet to resolve is the side effects of the spell on the souls in question. In brief, what this does is combine two spells, one that targets a soul, and another that evicts a soul out of a body. These spells, separately, are usually harmless on the long term, however there is the issue of how the souls are intertwined._

“ _From our experiments, the combined souls, even if they have separate consciousness, behave as one. Therefore, while we believe the spell to target a specific consciousness would work as expected, in order for us to ensure so, it has been enhanced, especially since the souls in question are half-siblings, to include blood from both someone from the paternal bloodline, like a brother, and from the maternal bloodline -”_

You took a deep breath.

“- _and to use a greater force than usual to separate and evict the other soul. The other soul would then be reaped, as expected, while the targeted soul would stay in the host body. However, as a result of those enhancements, and the fact that nothing of that magnitude was tested on the hybrid soul in question, we cannot determine, for a fact, the effect this spell could have on the soul._

“ _It could be nothing, it could only require the soul to recharge for an extended period of time, but it could also cause permanent damage to the soul, or eat away at it completely. The latter is highly unlikely, in our opinion, but not impossible, if we want to ensure the spell does not cause other, unintended side effects that could be catastrophic._

“ _That being said, it is in our collective opinion, as supported by these documents, that it is worth pursuing; the chances of it working well, for all parties involved, is far greater than it not working, or only partially working. Please find, in the next pages, the details of our method, and references. Attached are files with separate, but important details, about the execution of the spell itself.”_

Sam let out a sigh. “I don’t - I don’t know what to think,” he said, “But we’ll, uh, look it over. See what they meant. How they came to these conclusions.”

Claire stayed silent, tapping on the table.

“You know we have to do it, don’t you?” you asked, “No matter the consequences.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“Sam.”

“We’ll _see about that_ ,” he said, “We still don’t know what they mean, exactly. And we still have Lucifer to worry about. Let’s just - let’s leave it for now.”

You flipped the file shut. “Yeah,” you said, “Okay. It’s also not just me.”

“What?”

“Adam,” you reminded him, “Whatever it is, it can’t be my decision alone.”

Sam nodded, hair falling to the sides of his face. “Hey, promise me something.”

“What?”

“Promise you won’t make this decision, whatever it is, without - without at least telling me first,” he said, “And I mean all of it. Anything you find out. Anything you think might happen.”

“Of course, Sam, I would never -”

“You did,” he said, “That day, with Lucifer. You told Dean there was a chance you wouldn’t make it, that you didn’t _want_ to make it, but you didn’t tell me.”

If Claire could shrink on command, she would’ve disappeared, from the looks of it.

You put the file back down, burying your hands in your pockets. “You’re still my little brother, Sammy,” you said, “I don’t care how tall you are, or how old. I just - I didn’t want you to have to carry that. It’s not the way it should be.”

“It’s a little too late for that.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, “I am.”

“Just - promise me.”

“Okay.” You took a deep breath. “Okay. I promise.”

He smiled, and Claire visibly relaxed. You were about to sit back down yourself when your phone vibrated in your pocket. _Dean._

“Hey,” you said, “What’s up?”

The other end of the line was silent but for shallow breaths.

“Dean?” You locked eyes with Sam - _something’s wrong._ “Is everything okay?”

Dean cleared his throat. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, “Everything’s fine. Where are you guys?”

“Sioux Falls. Dean, what happened?”

He paused for a moment, and you could tell the phone was put away for the duration of it, then he said, “Can you come home already?”

“Dean -”

“Just,” he said, “Please come home.”  



	17. Chapter Seventeen

Dean didn’t like silence.

It was a hard preference to have, especially with a brother like Sam, but even when Sam was silent, elbow-deep in a book, or just in his room, he had a presence. Dean could hear him moving about, breathing, mumbling, _something._ His sister was also fidgety, when she was around. She’d pace around, or play with something, or just tap on the closest wooden surface. Cas, on the other hand, could be still and as silent as a statue, for _hours_ , and with everything going on right now, it was driving Dean _crazy._

So breakfast at seven in the fucking morning it was.

Sam and Y/N left at dawn, saying the road was long, that they’d best catch it now, that they were lucky there was no fog, and the faster they left the faster they could come home, but Dean knew it was only half true; ever since they came back last night from the British compound, or whatever, they were both itching to leave. They wanted space from the bunker, from their mom, from _him._

They wanted some space to breathe, and he couldn’t blame them, not really.

So. Silence. He could deal with that. He could listen to the _hiss_ and the _buzz_ of the coffee machine. The _click_ s of his phone when he checked on their GPS. The _flick_ of the light switch of his mother’s room. The rip of the plastic bag that held the extra mixed powder together. His own huff, his own voice saying, _“Evigila_.” His mom grunting, tossing, turning, until she finally came to. Her breath as she took in her surroundings. The clap of her hand on the side of her jeans.

He picked her gun up from the nightstand. “You looking for this?”

She stared at him like he was the last thing she expected to see there. Cas said that might happen, that the delay in waking her up would make it harder for her to regain her senses once she did, disorient her for longer, but that it should be temporary. And it was. In a moment, she said, “Dean?”

“Morning, Mom,” he said, putting the tray with her food down, next to her, “How are you feeling?”

“What -” She sat up, frowning. “What am I doing here? When did I get here?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” he said, “About that. I’m sorry. I just didn’t think it would be safe to leave you there, with the Brits, after last night.”

“What?”

“Okay, so, here’s what went down,” he said, “We found the Brits. We went in. Knocked everyone out with a spell. Got Y/N. Got you, and came back to the bunker.”

Her lips parted, her eyes wide. “What did she do to them?”

He leaned back on the cupboard. “Uh.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Nothing. We didn’t do anything. Just talked.”

“Talked?”

“Yeah, well,” he said, “You know how it goes. But no one got hurt.” Except Ketch. “Well, no one _died_.”

“And, what?” she asked, “They let you go?”

He scoffed. “They don’t _let us_ do anything,” he said, “We negotiated a deal. They stay out of our way, we stay out of theirs.”

“And you brought me here.”

“We brought you _home_ ,” he said, “And, like I said, we didn’t know if you’d be safe with them, after what we did.”

“That’s not for you to _decide,”_ she said, “It’s not bad enough that you didn’t stay out of this - how did you know anyway?” she asked, “That she was alive?”

“How did I? How did _you?”_ he asked, “How long have you known? When we called you over? When we organized her _funeral?_ ” His voice was low, strained, like he was holding it back, which he was, for the most part. “Or maybe when Sam went off on his own, and you saw - you saw how bad he was, how worried.”

“I didn’t know. Not back then. Not for sure,” she said, “There were theories as to what happened, but no one knew for sure until we had her.”

Until you _kidnapped her,_ he wanted to say. But it was too early for this. Too early for his thumping heart, for his tired shoulders. Just, too early. “Well,” he said, “It’s done now. Sorry about the whole spell thing, it wasn’t my idea. But it would’ve been a lot more violent if we didn’t.”

She sighed. “It’s okay,” she said, and his muscles relaxed. “What time is it?”

“Eight, maybe,” he said, “In the morning. The whole thing was last night.”

She angled herself on the bed, taking the mug between her palms. “Okay,” she said, “Good morning.”

He smiled at her, best as he could, and turned to leave. “I’ll be in the library.”

“Aha,” she said, “So my car’s still back there?”

“Yeah,” he said, “Didn’t know which one was yours, so.”

“It’s okay,” she said, “I’ll take a bus.”

“Mom.”

“Even if you made a deal,” she said, “I still have stuff there. People I work with, cases I need to hunt. Can’t just up and leave.”

“You can,” he said, “And you _should._ You can hunt from right here,” he said, “Or anywhere else you want. We went thirty years without their gear just fine, it’s not a deal breaker.”

“It’s not about that, Dean,” she said, “But, it’s okay. I don’t expect you to understand.”

He closed his eyes, and summoned every speck of will inside him not to argue. He knew it was going to be a long day, he could tell, so if he could help it, he was going to try to make it as smooth as possible. Cas would be good right now. Normal. And in the library.

Maybe the silence wasn’t so bad, after all.

\--

“Do you think Claire is okay?”

Dean looked up from his computer to the angel across the media room, on the chair, and crossed his feet on the couch. “Sure she is,” he said, “Why do you ask?”

Cas grimaced, rubbing his forehead with his thumb. “It’s just all the _hunting_ ,” he said, “At first, I thought it was a reaction, a way to keep herself safe,” he said, “To avenge her parents, her lost childhood,” he mused, “But she’s seeking it out now, even when she doesn’t have to. You’ve heard her,” he said, “Even when she’s not saving someone she loves, or protecting her hometown, she looks for jobs. She looks for danger.”

“It’s what we do.”

“That is exactly my point.”

Dean shrugged. “I think she’s good,” he said, “Her heart’s in the right place.”

“I worry,” he said, “Because the best people I know end up the most hurt, in this profession.”

Dean clicked through the tabs he kept open. “You have, what’s it called,” he said, “A pretty fucked up view. It’s not always like this. She’s - she’s lucky enough not to be like us. Don’t worry.”

“Do you know any hunters that have it good?”

“Jody,” he said, “And she’s taking care of her.”

“I suppose.”

“And she has you, too, Cas,” he noted, “It doesn’t get any better than that.”

The angel smiled. “That is very kind of you to say.”

“S’true,” Dean muttered. “Any news on Lucifer?”

Cas shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, “But I plan to talk to Crowley later today. If anyone knows where he is, it’s him.”

“I guess.”

Moments later, they heard shuffling. Doors opening and closing, approaching, until Mary made it to the room they were in. “She’s not here,” she said, “Not even in the dungeon.”

He shut the lid of his computer. “I know, Mom,” he said, “She’s out with Sam.”

“Out with Sam?”

“Yeah.”

“You left him alone with her?”

Cas’ eyebrows were raised. “Sam _is_ past infancy, I believe.”

Dean rolled his eyes at his friend, who went back to his phone like nothing happened. “Why are you asking?”

She licked her lips, straightening the jacket she had in her hand and pushing her arm through it. “Nothing,” she said, “I’m leaving.”

No. No, no, no. He slid his computer aside and followed her out, in the hallway. “Where to?”

“I’m going to call them,” she said, “And I’ll find them. I just hope it’s not too late.”

“Too late for what? Wait - Mom.” He held onto her forearm. “What’s going on?”

She took a second to think. “I know you won’t like to hear this,” she said, “But what’s going on with your sister, it’s not normal. She’s not herself.”

“What?”

“She has to be stopped.”

If she had said anything, anything at all, except those words, maybe he could’ve gotten a coherent thought out. Maybe he wouldn’t take a step back, like she’d unlocked a reaction inside him, his back to the wall. She seemed to strange then, so foreign, with her flannel, and her jeans, and her short hair, and her guns, even if he’d known her to be a hunter for far more than just the past couple of months.

Y/N said something, yesterday. She said that when she caught her, when she was waiting for her on the other side of the portal or whatever, she treated her like a monster she was hunting. He let it slide then, because, well, his sister’d been through a lot, and there was a good chance she was blowing things out of proportion. But _stopped._ The last time a Winchester had told him that, the last time he had to hear those words from a person he loved, about one of his siblings, was the day his dad died.

“Mom. No.”

“You know, don’t you?” she said, “About what she can do.”

“I have a pretty good idea.”

“Then you know _why_ ,” she said, “Dean. Listen. I know this must be hard for you. She’s your sister, I get that. That’s why I’m not asking you to tag along,” she said, “That’s why I didn’t include you in the Brits’ plan. But it has to be done.”

“What, _exactly_?”

She looked down at her hands. “I don’t - I don’t know. Maybe we could try the Brits’ way -”

“And what, _take her soul?”_

“I don’t know, okay? I don’t,” she said, “But I know one thing: she has to be at least...restrained, or something. We have to keep her here until we can figure out what to do with her.”

“ _Mom._ ”

“I gotta go.”

“You won’t find her,” he said, “Sam won’t let you. Hell, _she_ won’t.”

She considered it. “I’ll talk to Sam.”

It was then, only then, that the weight of the past few weeks dawned on him. He had to go through his sister’s death, on the hands of the same being that tortured her, for _years._ He had to sit back, and take Sam’s words, Sam’s anger, without reacting because he _knew_ , he knew that if he said the wrong thing, or ticked him off the wrong way, not only might he leave over this, hate him over it, but he could break, again, and he couldn’t bear it. So he took the anger. He took the anger, and the frustration, and the stress, and the smug demons, and the teenager he had to stay composed in front of, and the angel that silently blamed him for it all, he knew.

He took it all, but he couldn’t take _this._ Not now. Not like this. Not from _her._

“No,” he said, “You won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Why _not?_ ” he repeated, “Because you want to hunt your own _kid._ I get it, okay? It’s not easy being back. And it’s not easy hearing this stuff about her, whatever they said -”

“Everything they said is true.”

“So, what?” he asked, “What now? You want to get her here, and then what?”

“And then we fix her,” she said, “Or, well.”

“Don’t.”

“She’s not your sister, Dean,” she said, “Not really. Not since she came back, and not even _before_ , and you _know it._ You can pretend it’s fine, but it’s not. You’re blinded by the idea that she’s your sister, and that you have to stand up for her, but you _don’t_. I understand, I’ve been there,” she said, “She looks like her, she talks a bit like her, too, but she’s not _her._ ”

“Oh yeah?” he asked, “And how the fuck would _you_ know, huh? You _left._ You made a deal with a demon, and you let him - you _left us._ You don’t know what the _fuck_ you’re talking about. You don’t know her,” he said, “Or me. And definitely not _Sam_.”

“I know John wouldn’t have let it happen.”

“Yeah,” Dean snapped, “I _know._ I was _there._ I was there when he kicked her out when she was _eight_ , because she wanted to go out to play instead of watching over Sammy,” he said, “Which was our job, by the way, no thanks to you. Where were _you?_ Where were you when I begged him to have her back, and he told me she was a liability, huh? That she was making me _weak -_ I was _ten. Ten._ And I had to promise him I’d look out for her, make sure she follows the rules. Like Sam.”

“I know John was rough on her,” she said, “But this is different. She’s not a _child._ And neither are _you._ ”

“So, what now?” he asked, “If you can’t fix her, you kill her?”

“We’re hunters, Dean. At least I am.”

“Let me get this straight,” he said, “You come in here, into our _home_ ,” he said, “And you tell me that not only are you after my _sister_ , but that I don’t know how to do the job I’ve done longer than you have?”

“Clearly, you don’t,” she said, “Because if you did, you’d support me on this. You’d get whatever you need, and you’d find Sam, and you’d get her back here before she hurts someone else.”

“She’s not hurting anyone, Mom.”

“Maybe not right now,” she said, “But she will. Like she did all those years.”

“What?”

“Do you think I don’t know?” she said, “About the demon blood? About what she turned into, what she did?”

He swallowed the lump in his throat.

“She’s evil, Dean,” she said, “It’s _in her_. She’s evil, and she’s _broken_. I wasn’t there the first time, but I’m here now.”

His laugh was dry, humorless. “You think this is evil?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, “Sam did the same thing she did. Is he evil, too? Is he not my brother?”

“It’s different.”

“Is it?” He took a step towards her. “What if it was me? What if you came back here, and I was a demon,” he said, “Or I had a - a curse, that made me more of a murderer than I already am. What then?”

She searched his eyes, like she couldn’t figure out if there was more to his words than the hypothetical. “What do you want me to say?”

He closed his eyes.

“This is what I _do_ , Dean. And if you boys won’t help me,” she said, “Then I’ll have to do it myself.”

“You don’t give a shit about us, do you?”

“What?”

“You don’t give a shit about us, not really,” he said, “You’re just living out some twisted fantasy. You gave up hunting, didn’t you? For years. You settled, and you had a family, and it was _good._ And when you came back, you couldn’t wait to go back to hunting, even though we’re right there. All you have to do is see us. Talk to us. But, no. Because we’re not your family, are we?”

“Of course you’re my family, Dean,” she said, “But it’s at times like these that families have to make decisions, for the good of everyone.”

“No,” he said, “It’s at times like these that families take care of each other, _help_ each other. We don’t give up.”

“Are you missing the point on purpose?”

“Maybe,” he said, “Because you really sound like you want to kill your own daughter right now.”

“You’re twisting it. Again,” she said, “How many times do I have to tell you -”

“It’s her,” Dean said, “Just like I was _me_ when I had the Mark of Cain. When I became a Knight of Hell.”

“What?”

“If you’d come back a little earlier,” he said, “Just a few months. You would’ve hunted me, wouldn’t you?”

He might’ve wanted to end it.

He _did._ At one point, it was all he could think about. How to just end it all, finally rid the world of the one Winchester that made everything worse for everyone else. He’d even asked Cas, because he couldn’t bear to ask Sam, he couldn’t put that on him, not when he knew he would die before he put a knife through his brother’s heart. But if his mother, if his own _mother_ had hunted him down, it would’ve broken him, more than he already was. It would’ve torn out the last bit of will he had because, dammit, he _loved her._ She was his _Mom_ , he couldn’t help it.

John - John, he could expect that from. He could see it; the man would’ve killed Sam if he hadn’t died before he got the chance to see it through. But her - she was _everything._ Back then, and even now, before this whole thing. She would smile, and his heart would _soar._ She would text him back, and he would feel whole again, like he had another reason to wake up, to keep fighting.

But now he wasn’t so sure.

Because Y/N, she was so much like him. All the time, even when they were little. Even when they weren’t a team anymore, he never thought of her like he did of Sam, and she might think that it made him his favorite, but she didn’t _know._ She didn’t know that he saw her as his equal, and as fucked up as that was, that meant that Sam came first. That meant that when she gave him a choice, who would he rather lose, her or Sam, he chose her, even if he didn’t say it out loud, because he wish he could’ve chosen himself.

That meant that when she asked him to please, just let her die, that he was going to _let her_ , because, dammit, he would want that for himself.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mary said, “And, to be honest, we could talk about it later. I have to go now. I’ll text.”

“If you go,” he said, “Don’t come back.”

“Dean.”

“I mean it,” he said, his voice wavering, “If you leave, right now, I don’t want you to come back. Ever.”

Her eyes softened. “Dean,” she said, “It’s gonna be okay.”

“No,” he said, “Not like this.”

“So, what?”

“So like _I said_ ,” he said, “You either stay, and we do this _our_ way, or you leave, and you never come back. And I swear, I _swear_ , if you even _try_ to hurt her, or Sam…”

“Your way?” she asked, “And what would that be, exactly? You’re not doing anything. You let her out, with your little brother, _alone_. She could’ve killed him by now, you know that, right? Like she almost killed Ketch,” she said, “And the guards, and Lady Bevell.”

“Look,” he said, “I tried. But I’m not defending her to you. I’m not trying to _convince you_ ,” he said, “I’m giving you a choice. You either take it, or you leave it.”

“I’m not going to let her _go_ ,” she said, “Not the way she is.”

“Well, then,” he said, “You have to go through me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, Dean,” she said, “Or Sam. Or even _her._ ”

“But you will.”

“You said I don’t know you,” she said, “You don’t know me, either.”

“Then leave, Mary.”

“Dean -”

“ _Go_ ,” he said, “And don’t come back.”

\--

By the fifth shot, it was starting - _starting -_ to quiet down a little.

Cas left, too, a few hours after Mary. Now he was all alone, in the entire bunker, sitting in the corner of the kitchen, right next to the fridge, a glass in his hand, and a bottle next to him. He leaned his head back against the cold walls, and rolled his sleeves up, the box of photos next to him scattered all over the floor.

It was a lie, wasn’t it? He knew, at some level, that it was. He’d seen the fights, between his parents. He remembered the imperfections, everything John suddenly neglected after his wife’s death. He remembered the tension, but he also remembered safety, happiness. Feeling like if he could depend on any one person, anyone in the entire world, it was his Mom.

She promised. She promised she’d keep him safe.

He’d known about her deal for years now. Years. Yet it never dawned on him how that worked. It never struck him as anything than a fact, a “fixed point in time.” He never fully grasped that this was her fault, all of it, from the very beginning. Their fucked up lives, their broken choices, everything they’ve loved, everything they’ve lost, it was because of her. She took everything, _everything_.

And now she wanted to take _more._

He hated himself. He hated everything he’d done, everything he’d caused. He fucked a lot of things up, his brother and sister included, in so many ways, it was an actual miracle they even talked to him at this point, let alone wanted to be around him at all. He knew that. But even in his mind, he couldn’t bring himself to blame this one on him, too.

He _hated her._

Which sucked, because he _loved her,_ and he didn’t know what to do with that. He didn’t know what to do with the lie, with the fact that if it was his father that burned in that nursery that night, and he thought about more times than he’d care to admit, his mother wouldn’t have been his safe haven. She wouldn’t have kept him and his siblings out of danger, vowed to protect them against what killed their father, no. No, she would’ve done the exact same thing as _him_ , wouldn’t she?

She would’ve fucked his life and theirs the exact same way, and it would’ve been worse, because she _knew_. Her entire family were hunters, she knew the kind of pain, the kind of hurt that went with it. She knew that you had to stick up for each other, _no matter what_ , didn’t she?

Maybe she just didn’t love them, him, enough. Maybe she didn’t love him at all.

Maybe she just held on to the idea of the four-year-old she had, like he held onto the idea of his perfect Mom. Maybe that’s the kid she wanted, the kid she would protect. But not him. Not like this, not after everything he’s done. He forgave her, for everything she did, for the deal, for turning her back on them the first time.

But he couldn’t forgive her for _this._

It wasn’t his fault she missed all those years with him, with them. It wasn’t his fault she wasn’t there. It was _hers._ It wasn’t his fault, dammit, and no amount of booze could convince him otherwise. It stung, in his chest. It stung to know that not only did John never love him, not really, but she didn’t, either, not right now. And Sam? Sam was too forgiving, too good, for him, or for anyone, really.

_**Sam: Cas has been texting me. Is everything ok? Pick up.** _

_**Sam: dude, seriously. What happened with Mom?** _

_**Sam: you’re drinking aren’t you** _

He wasn’t even sad, he didn’t think. Everything was just so heavy, so dull, that he had to try to tone it down, make his brain shut up for a damn second. He’d allowed himself to hope. That was the problem. Yeah. It had to be. The minute Chuck took away the bomb, and Amara gave him back his Mom and his sister, he hoped.

He shouldn’t have.

_**Sam: hey do you want pizza on the way back? We’re having some. Thought it would be a nice break from all the burgers.** _

He stared at that last text, lifting another shot to his lips. What was he supposed to say to that? _Yeah, sure, Sam, bring some pepperoni pizza, oh and by the way I kicked Mom out?_ Or maybe _Don’t get me anything, already ate through the entire fucking fridge, btw mom wants to kill our sister now so there’s that._

When he thought he couldn’t possibly get any more numb, he unlocked the phone and typed: _**don’t want pizza. But could use a six pack.**_

Then, ten minutes later:

_**If mom calls don’t answer.** _

Sam didn’t reply for another five minutes: _**why?**_

_**I’ll tell u when u come home. When r u coming?** _

Then, nothing. He didn’t say anything back, and Dean hated the thirteen year old girl he was turning into because he kept staring at the text, and staring, and staring, until it hurt to keep his hand up, to stay awake, even. Sam could’ve run out of battery then. It could be a million things, he knew, but he was desperate. This whole place, with the million rooms and the garage the size of a stadium, and the library, and the war room, and the dungeon, and the labs, felt like it was tiny. Like if he breathed too much, or moved too much, it would collapse on him.

His first call was to Sam. It didn’t go through. Then he called his sister.

“Hey,” she said, “What’s up?”

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t beg - _please don’t leave me. I don’t want to be alone right now._ He couldn’t even make it sound normal; he didn’t trust his voice to do it.

“Dean?” she asked, “Is everything okay?”

_No. I can’t lose everyone. I can’t lose you, and Sam, because of what I did. I can’t lose you today, too._

He cleared his throat. _Stop that. Stop it._ “Everything’s fine,” he lied, “Where are you guys?”

“Sioux Falls. Dean, what happened?”

He held his phone away from his face, to his forehead, just for a second, until he could sound less like someone had just strangled his puppy. “Can you come home already?”

“Dean -”

“Just,” he said, “Please come home.”

“Yeah,” she breathed, “Yeah, of course. We’ll get on the road. We’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Good. Good, thanks,” he said, “And, uh, if Mom calls, don’t pick up, okay?”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

“Cool.”

“Dean.”

“I gotta go,” he said, “Drive safe, or whatever.”

He hung up, and was about to stash his phone somewhere, when he noticed he got five missed calls from Cas in the past minute alone. He frowned, dialing his number, “Hey, Cas.”

“Dean,” he said, “Good. You picked up.”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“I found Lucifer.”

“So that son of a bitch Crowley knew where he was.”

“Not only that,” Cas said, “He had him, too, for a while. The British Men of Letters helped. Needless to say, they’re not helping anymore.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he’s on the loose again,” Cas said, “But we have the you-know-what now. We can end this, once and for all.”

“Can it wait?”

“What?”

“Can it wait?” Dean asked, “Just - just a couple of days. Do you think that would be okay?”

“I suppose two days is not a lot in the grand scheme of things,” Cas said, “But I do suggest we move as soon as possible. I should stake him out until then.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” Dean insisted, “You’ll come home. And we’ll deal with this together. All of us. As a family.”

 


	18. Chapter Eighteen

“Morning.”

“ _Jesus.”_

Your face split into a shit-eating grin and you watched as Dean stumbled off the couch and onto the floor. He scrambled his way up, rubbing his eyes. “When’d you get back?”

“A couple of hours ago.”

“What time is it?”

“Ten,” you said, “In the morning.”

He groaned, dragging his feet past you and into the hallway. “Couldn’t just let me sleep in?”

“You’re _way_ too old to be sleeping on a couch this small.”

“Shut up,” he grumbled, and you followed him to the bathroom, where he splashed his face, and a good part of his shirt, with water. “Where’s Sam?”

“Kitchen,” you said, “With Claire.”

“I thought you were dropping her off.”

“Change of plans,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest, “So.”

He pressed the towel to his face, smoothed it over his hair. “What?”

You shifted on your feet. “Where’s, uh…”

“Gone.”

“Gone?”

He threw the towel on the bed, leading the way to the kitchen. Beer bottles, and empty glasses, were still scattered all over. Sam was eying them while he and Claire had breakfast like they were going to manifest into sentient beings any second now. Dean just walked around them, only stopping to pick the one bottle that still had a bit of whiskey left in it up and push it on the table.

“Nice,” Sam noted.

Claire raised an eyebrow in your general direction - _what’s going on?_ You shrugged. “What happened?”

“Yeah,” Sam pressed, “Where’s Mom?”

Dean elected to ignore Sam, keeping his gaze on the whirling coffee machine. “Have you seen Cas?”

“He’s in the library,” Claire said, “Research.”

“He tell you guys anything?”

“No,” you said, “He said it’s best we wait until you wake up.”

For the first time this morning, Dean’s lips hinted at a smile. “Okay.” He poured his coffee, and raised it to his nose, closing his eyes. “God. Never wake me up before noon ever again.”

For a while, the only sound that echoed in the room was the crunch of the chips you shared with Claire. That is, until Dean was done consuming his caffeine, and called Castiel, instead of hollering for him, to come over. Once he did, and everyone was in the tiny space with not enough chairs, he leaned his elbow on the counter, and gave everyone the Speech Grimace. The one he reserved for announcements.

“So.”

“ _So.”_

“Good news,” he said, “And bad news.”

“Ugh.”

“I know,” he told Claire. “Good news is: Cas found Lucifer.”

The angel buried his hands in his trench coat. “Crowley had him. He doesn’t anymore,” he explained, “We should be able to track him, if we want. I didn’t have time to investigate further, but,” he said, “We can always summon him again, if he doesn’t find us first.”

“Find us?”

“He knows where the bunker is,” Sam said, “He could drop by any second. Maybe not inside, but, you know.”

How did he know where the bunker was? That wasn’t important now, though. “And the bad news?”

Dean took a deep breath. “Mom’s after you.”

Sam’s shoulders tensed. “ _What?”_

“With the British Men of Letters?” Cas asked.

“No,” Dean said, “On her own.”

You couldn’t say you were surprised, exactly. Not with the way she treated you, when she was completely on her own, waiting for your return from the fifties. Not with the way she didn’t even blink before she jammed that needle into your neck. Not with everything she’d done so far. But it was still heavy on your ears, on your whole form.

“And you let her go?” Claire asked.

“She’s still Mom,” you mumbled, “Okay. Okay, that’s fine.”

“How is that _fine?_ ”

“She’s after me because of what I am, right?” you said, “What I can do.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, “And?”

“And we have a cure.”

“ _Y/N._ ”

“Sam,” you said, “I’ll give it - you - all the time you need. But if push comes to shove, there’s a way out.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Dean said, holding a hand up, “What? When did _that_ happen?”

“We just found out,” you said, “Turns out Henry kept a box, for me.”

“ _A la_ Back To The Future?”

“Kind of, yeah,” you said, “There’s a spell, apparently. Or a series of spells. It’s supposed to, uh, kick Adam out, and keep me.”

“But we don’t know how dangerous it is yet,” Sam said.

Dean’s forearms rested on the counter. “ _Fuck_ ,” he said, “That’s - that’s amazing.”

Sam raised his arms in frustration, but took the win for once. Maybe it was how many times you’d bickered about it with him on the way back to Kansas, but it was probably the way Dean looked like he was truly awake at the news, like every part of him was boosted at once. Whatever happened, between him and Mary, must’ve been _bad._ Bad enough to warrant the call yesterday. Bad enough to make him look like he’d been running a marathon the night before. Or maybe that was just the whiskey.

“Well,” Sam said, “Why don’t you two catch up, yeah? You haven’t really talked ever since…” He looked down at his hands. “Claire, Cas - can you help me with Henry’s box? There’s a lot of Enochian in there,” he said, “And a lot of references to files that should be here.”

The Novak, and the Novak-adjacent, nodded at your little brother, and cleared the kitchen. Dean had loosened his stance, pushed the bottles on the floor to the side, and started making himself some eggs. “You eat yet?”

“I’m good.”

“I’ve got bacon.”

You pursed your lips. “Okay. But just one.”

“Bacon?”

“Have you _met_ me?”

“God it’s good to have someone else around that doesn’t eat rabbit food all the time.”

You traced circles over the counter, tucking your hair behind your ear. “I know you don’t wanna talk about what happened.”

“Would you?”

“Fair,” you said, “But, you okay?”

He rolled his eyes.

“Dean, look,” you said, “I get it, okay? No one gets it more than I do. But, I dunno,” you said, “I’ve been getting tired, lately, of all the _tension._ All the bullshit. Aren’t you?”

He lit the stove under the empty pan. Through a face-load of butter in.

“I’m just worried about you, that’s all.”

“Don’t,” he said, “I’m fine. I’m _great._ If anyone should be worried about anyone, it’s me, about you.”

“It’s not a competition.”

“Maybe,” he said, “But you died, and came back from the _past_ , somehow, then, right out of it, you set yourself up as bait. I mean, I’m no expert, but isn’t time travel supposed to be flexible?” He laid out the bacon in the butter. “Couldn’t you have come back a few days earlier? Explained this properly? Instead of just…”

“Just?”

“Why didn’t you come to me?” he asked, “Why’d you tell Claire to send me after the blade while you hashed out your plan with Sam?”

You watched as he popped the eggs, one after the other, glancing your way, waiting for an answer. “You know Dad’s storage places better than anyone,” you said, “Better than me, or Sam.”

“Bullshit.”

“Okay.” You looked back over your shoulder, made sure no one was still standing there. “I needed to get both done at the same time, so if Lucifer pops out right after the thing with the Brits, we’d be ready.”

“And?”

“And I wanted to see Sam,” you admitted, “Something - something happened, when I woke up. And it’s bugging me,” you said, “I just wanted to see him, make sure I didn’t fuck this timeline for him somehow.”

He frowned, the eggs dancing in the butter while he shook the pan. “What do you mean?” he asked, “When’d you wake up?”

“A few months after the apocalypse.”

“Where?”

“Michigan Medicine.”

“ _Jesus fucking Christ_ ,” he breathed, “Let me guess. Sometime around Christmas, right?”

“A bit before that,” you said, “But yeah.”

He took a deep breath. “That was around the time he relapsed,” Dean said, “He kept swearing left and right that he saw you, that you were real this time, but, well. If I’d just _known._ ”

“I prayed to Cas. Didn’t he tell you?”

Dean grimaced. “There was a war in heaven at the time. He didn’t even mention it until months later,” he explained, “He checked that you were in the Cage, and you were. He told me it must have been a trick, by one of his enemies. But I didn’t think it had anything to do with what happened to Sam.”

“So, what was it?”

Dean switched the stove off. Got a couple of slices of toast from a bag and stuck them in the toaster. “Sam, you mean?” At your nod, he asked, “What do you know?”

“Not much,” you said, “I didn’t stay long. I wanted to get back here, but ended up in the fifties instead.”

His eyebrows made it all the way to his hairline. “ _Oo_ kay.” He rolled his sleeves up. “I dunno what to tell you,” he said, “You should talk to him.”

“Dean -”

“No,” he said, “He didn’t wanna say anything, so you’re gonna have to get it from him, okay?”

“Okay.”

“So you didn’t come back earlier because?”

“Because I didn’t want to give Lucifer the chance to find me,” you said, “Dude. I’m not hiding anything.”

“I’m not saying that you are.” He set plates in front of you. Poured the food onto them. “I’m just - I dunno. I guess I feel a bit left out, you know? We used to be a team. You and me.”

“Feels like forever ago.”

“I know,” he said, and was about to give you one of the slices when he decided not to, and stuck both on his side. Dick. “But it was one shit show after the other. Doesn’t count.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” he said, “I could really use you around here.”

You fiddled with the bacon, with your fork. “I wanna fix up Bobby’s place.”

He stayed silent, digging into his food.

“But I don’t know if I want to move there full-time.”

He only gave you a quick glance.

“I don’t wanna leave.”

“Right.”

“I don’t,” you repeated, “But it was still my home. It’s like - it’s like the Impala, for you. You get that?”

He sighed. “Yeah, I do,” he said, “Sure, why the hell not? After this is over. We can work on it, all of us. I think I still have the inspection report somewhere. Gonna cost a shit-ton of money, though.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah, we will,” he said, “So what’s up with the cure? What’s Sam got against it?”

You shrugged. “We just don’t know the side effects for sure,” you said, “But I’ve seen Henry and Sinclair work together. I’ve seen their method. If they think it’s a good idea, I’m going for it.”

“Sinclair?” He frowned. “Why does that sound familiar - wait, _Cuthbert_ Sinclair?”

“You know him?”

“I _killed him_ ,” he said, “No wonder Sam’s on the fence about this.”

“Why?” you asked, “He’s a bit shady, but he’s not that bad.”

“Not that -” He scoffed. “Dude’s a control freak. Always got a motive, always two steps ahead. Even when he’s dead, the fucker. I wouldn’t trust a word he says. Did you know about the zoo?”

“The zoo?”

“He kept a zoo,” Dean said, “Of different creatures, and stuff like that.”

“He collected weapons, ingredients,” you said, “But back then, no creatures.”

“How’d you know?”

“I stayed with him,” you said, “The Men of Letters asked too many questions, so Henry suggested I stay with him instead. All three months.”

“What’d you do for three months?”

You swallowed your egg-smeared bacon, rubbing your hands over your jeans, before you got out of your flannel, so you were only wearing the t-shirt underneath. He couldn’t see everything that way, but he saw enough. If Sinclair was one thing, he was _thorough._ He experimented, and tested, and did everything he could to find out the extent of your powers, define them, figure out a way to control them. That included, but was not limited to, spells on your body. Spells that required sigils be carved into you, and while you’d thought your “regenerative abilities” would make them better over time, they never really improved. Just scarred all the way.

“Holy shit.”

“They look worse than they are.” You put your flannel on again. “But we wanted to know what I could do. If there was a way to make this better. And it paid off, so.”

“Just,” Dean said, “Maybe wait until Sam goes through the whole thing. Make sure it’s kosher. Plus,” he said, “It would be a waste to give up what you can do before you face off the devil again.”

“If the cure works,” you said, “We don’t have to go after Lucifer at all.”

“Except we do,” he said, “He might not be after another apocalypse now, but he’s up to no good. And it’s our fault he’s out anyway. We gotta make this right.”

“You’re right.”

“What?”

“What?”

“You got that look on your face,” he noted, “Talk to me.”

“I don’t think I can do it,” you admitted, “Face off Lucifer. Not alone. Last time…”

“I know.”

“I just,” you said, “I don’t know why it got to me that much. But it did.”

He scoffed, again. “I think I have a good idea _why._ ”

“No,” you said, “You don’t get it. He did something.”

“What do you mean?”

“I remembered, after I woke up. I remembered what happened when I was in the Cage,” you said, “Before he - before he fused our souls together. He made me a deal. And I took it.”

Dean’s jaw locked. “What kind of a deal?”

You put your fork down.

“Just say it.”

“He fixes the damage,” you said, “that he did to my soul, over the years. And in return -”

His eyes were tired, but soft, sympathetic. “In return…”

“Adam.”

“What do you mean?”

You pushed your plate away, leaning over, lowering your voice. “You ever wonder why it’s me, in here, in control,” you said, “And not him?”

His face paled, but he kept on cutting the toast, distracting himself, you thought, his hands stuttering ever-so-slightly. “Whatever you did,” he said, “Down there. It doesn’t matter. You did what you had to do.”

“If I’d known,” you said, “If I’d known he’d be summoned out, or that I’d leave one day…”

“But you didn’t,” Dean said, “You couldn’t have. I know what it’s like,” he said, “Every day in there, every _cycle_ -” He looked straight at you. “It feels like it will never end. And for most, it doesn’t. You got lucky - _we_ got lucky,” he said, “Really, really fucking lucky.”

“You don’t have to defend me.”

“No,” he said, “You did what you had to do.”

“Dean -”

“You have to believe that,” he said, “I have to believe that, or I’d go insane.”

The silence that followed felt bloated, heavy. But neither of you were willing to break it. You finished your food. Washed the dishes. Threw out the bottles. Cleaned after Sam and Claire’s breakfast. Sighed. Got sighed at. Sam was right, you thought; you two _were_ emotionally constipated.

But not enough. Because, before you headed back to the library, he stopped, and he said, “You don’t have to do it alone. We’re a team.”

\--

Claire didn’t fit.

She knew that. She knew that the only reason they were letting her stay in the bunker, stay during any strategy sessions, or anything like that, was because they didn’t really know how _not to._ Sam and Dean were a united front, she thought, but their sister weirded out the balance, and no one was sure what to do anymore. So the end result was, they let her stay on, and they let her observe, and they let her pitch in.

And it was awesome _as fuck._

While Dean and Y/N had breakfast and second breakfast in the kitchen, respectively, Sam showed her where the MoL archives were. He was more focused on extracting any useful information they had in the box about the spells, the ingredients, and verifying every single one, and since she didn’t know any Enochian, she was assigned the archives - look for anything that looked remotely related to Sinclair, Y/N, Henry, or Oliver Price.

After hours of flipping through boxes and boxes of paper, she’d found some mentions, about Price and the discharged member, Cuthbert Sinclair. But there was barely any mention of Henry in there, just official head counts, and a list of initiates-to-be, and the date when their keys to the bunker were created in preparation for the ceremony.

For a family who’s supposed to be at least three generations deep into this organization, that was weird.

Sam had given her a floor plan, of the bunker, that he drew himself a few months after settling in. Everything looked pretty normal - dorms, there was another kitchen on another floor, and a few labs. But the way the MoL talked about the depths of the bunker, of the magic it held, the power, in nearly every damn paper or report she read either meant that there was a lot to this place that was left unexplored by the taller Winchester, or their entire repository was one gigantic circlejerk.

God, she hoped it was the former.

Because every single note about Oliver Price was two papers thin, bringing them to a total of 20 or so pages. Now, call her crazy, but she had a feeling they had a lot more to say about the psychic that, according to them, they found and trained to use from an early age. They were meticulous about every single thing they did, especially with the recruits, and the magic boy got a pass?

Yeah, no.

“Hey, Cas?”

Cas stood up immediately, as he did whenever she called for him, she noticed. Sam was in the middle of talking to him, too, but that didn’t stop him from crossing the distance between them in a second. “Is everything alright?”

“Uh,” she said, “Yeah. Can you take a look at something for me?” She held up one of the reports and pointed at the bottom. “Is this Enochian?”

He frowned. “It looks like it should be,” he said, “But it doesn’t make much sense.”

“Does it mean something weird or does it mean nothing at all?”

“Nothing at all,” he said, “Sorry I couldn’t be of assistance.”

“It’s fine. I could _swear_ I saw it somewhere….”

Sam twitched in his seat. “Show me.” She hopped down the stairs. Slid the files on the smooth wood. “Huh. Yeah. I’ve seen this, too. Around here.”

“Right?”

“I thought it was some sort of a warding, though. Looks a lot like the angel banishing sigil.”

“It’s gibberish,” Cas said.

“Maybe,” Sam replied, “But, I dunno - _Dean.”_

Dean looked up from the plan for the church where they wanted to summon Lucifer he was studying with his sister in the war room. “What?”

Sam passed the file to him. “You see this before?”

“Oh yeah,” Dean said, “Remember that toolbox in the garage?”

“ _The_ toolbox?”

“Which toolbox?” Y/N asked.

“When we first found out about the garage -” _Found out._ “- There was this red toolbox, in the garage. It wouldn’t open at first, no matter what we did. I think I almost broke a finger trying to bust it open.”

“And then?”

“And then I poked it,” Sam said, raising his finger up, “It drew a bit of blood, and opened.”

“And?” Claire asked, “What was in there?”

“Just a few wrenches, that sort of thing,” Sam answered.

“We figured some nerd just got super possessive over his stuff.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Where was this symbol? On the box.”

“Why does it matter?”

She scrunched her nose, like she was trying to remember something. “If it’s on the top, it’s a label,” she explained, “Right side, a Men of Letters chapter.” She counted the third on her finger. “Left side, a location. Bottom is an owner.”

Sam said, “Left,” the exact time Dean said, “Right.”

“ _Left,”_ Sam repeated.

“You sure?” Dean asked.

“Yeah,” Sam said, “I was holding it towards me, and the needle was on my right side, so the symbol was on the left.”

“So,” Claire said, “A location. That’s not super helpful.”

Y/N shook her head. “There’s a spell for just about everything around here,” she said, “This is one of them. You’ll need a few stuff.” She scribbled a few things on the corner of the plan and cut it off. Dean looked like he could cry. “Here. Equal amounts of everything. And draw that exact symbol on a piece of paper, and a few maps.”

“A few?”

“Well,” Y/N said, “You never know the scale you need. Could be another country. Could be another _room_. So. Trial and error. But you don’t need any blood, so there’s that.”

“We keep the ingredients in the first lab after the dorms, on the left,” Sam said, “You good with spells?”

“Never tried them.”

“I can show you,” Cas volunteered, “If you want.”

“Yeah, sure,” Claire said, “Why not?”

\--

“Please tell me you’re out hunting some werewolf and not still with the Winchesters.”

“ _Hi, Jody_ ,” Claire sang, “What’s up?”

Jody sighed into the phone, and Claire could hear the noises in the background dim. “I’m fine. We’re fine. What about you?”

“I’m good.”

“Claire.”

“I _swear_ ,” Claire said, taking the U-turn, the phone pressed between her ear and her shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’m with them, but I’m not doing anything, you know, dangerous. They got me on desk duty.”

“Wow,” Jody said, “And you let them?”

“Have you seen that bunker?” Claire said, “Shit’s like a mini Hogwarts.”

“Always knew you were a nerd at heart.”

“Am I on speaker? _Jody._ ”

Alex laughed, and Claire could swear Jody did, too. “So you’re fine?”

“I’m fine.”

“And you’ll let me know if that changes?”

“You are, literally, my emergency contact.”

“And you’ll come home?” she asked, “For your birthday?”

“Oh yeah,” Claire said, “That’s what I wanna do on my twenty-first birthday. Hang out with my mom and my weird sister.”

“Don’t be lame,” Alex said, “You can get alcohol poisoning any other day of the year.”

She laughed, pulling to a stop in front of the location the spell had led her to. “Sure,” she said, “I’ll be back for my birthday. But I expect presents. Lots of them.”

“One.”

“ _Two._ ”

“One, and cake.”

“The cake’s a _given._ ”

“Girls.”

“No, Jody,” Claire said, “The cake is a _g-i-v-e-n_.”

“You’ll get your cake,” Jody promised, “And your presents, and everything. Just come back, will you?”

“Sure.” She switched off the engine and snatched her bag. “I gotta go now.”

“Okay,” Jody said, “I’ll talk to you later.”

Claire smiled, tucking the phone in her pants and locking the car. She might grumble about Jody, about how often she called, and the weird stuff she commented on when she told her about her hunts - _“I don’t care if you thought there was a nest of vampires hidden there, you do not wander the woods late at night alone. It’s just stupid._ ” or “ _Did you even eat before you thought of walking into a haunted house after a long day of research?”_

...but she liked it. She liked having someone give two shits about her, even if she disagreed with her on just about everything related to hunting. It felt like, for the first time since she was _nine_ , she had a family, a real one, and she couldn’t complain. Well, she could, and she did, but she didn’t mean it, not really, not when it mattered.

This time, the place wasn’t a bunker, or someone’s house. It was a basement, with the Men of Letters symbol on it, faded, almost completely covered by moss. It didn’t have any locks, though, just a small hole on the left. A hole, which, as expected, had a small needle inside. She dug into her bag, and got out the vile of blood she had, and started pouring, until the door lit up and opened, just the tiniest bit.

_Thanks for being two steps ahead, Sam._

She coughed on her way downstairs, holding her small gun up, just in case some nerd zombie decided to come out of the dark, for some reason, but nothing came. Instead, it was just smelly, like it hadn’t had any fresh air in _years_ which, she supposed, was true in that case. Still, she held her scarf to her nose, and shut the door. If this place was warded, she didn’t want anything following her down there.

She lit the place with her phone, until she found a string connected to a lamp. She pulled it, and it was like walking into another version of the archives, except everything, _everything_ , had the same symbol, of this place, on it, right in the center. This time, though, the boxes had no locks, not even secret ones. They probably thought if anyone made it this far, they were certainly a legacy.

Well, or a legacy’s friend’s meatsuit’s daughter.

She snapped a photo of the place and sent it to all of them at once, before she made herself comfortable on the floor, on top of her jacket, and started sifting through the boxes, trying to figure out a pattern. It didn’t take much looking, because half of the boxes were ridiculously detailed logs of everything Oliver Price heard or saw, like they were emptying tapes of his psychic mind, and the other was about the Winchesters. All ordered chronologically.

And holy fucking _shit_ , they weren’t just legacies.

Apparently, the first generation of Winchesters that joined the Men of Letters did so on merit alone. He had his own monster research, and they recruited him because they needed him. And then his kid, Henry’s father, not only built on his dad’s legacy, but he also acted as a liaison between the Men of Letters chapters all around the _world._ And there were. So. Many. Chapters. None of that was mentioned in the bunker, at all, and Claire wondered why the fuck not. Did they not trust their own? Is the only reason this worked and the door opened that she used a _Winchester’s_ blood?

So. Many. Questions.

She slid out her phone, and called Sam, but the phone didn’t have any signal. The pictures weren’t sent either, she noticed, so she stepped out, the vile in her pocket, and shut the door again, before she re-attempted the call. “Claire!”

“Hey,” she said, “Did you see the pictures I sent?”

“Looking at them,” he said, “So, what’s the verdict?”

“This is it, Sam,” she said, “If any place has answers, it’s this. Got a lot of stuff about Price. And you guys.”

“Us?”

“Winchesters,” she said, “In _general._ ”

“Huh,” he said, “Looks like a lot, though.”

“I can handle it.”

“You sure?” Sam asked, “‘Cause, to be honest, we don’t have a lot of time right now. We can’t even spare Cas.”

“I can _handle it_.”

“Thank you,” he said, “So much. Y/N and Dean say thank you, too.”

“Don’t mention it,” she said, “If I find something interesting, I’ll upload it to that Drive folder.”

“Perfect, thanks,” he said, “Let me know if you need anything,” he said, “Or if you just get bored. You got enough money for a motel?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“Use that credit card,” he said, “Seriously.”

“I will, I will,” she said, “I’ll check in later tonight. You guys doing the whole Lucifer thing soon?”

“We’re still working on a few things, for the trap,” he said, “But, yeah. I’ll let you know when we know for sure.”

Someone made himself visible then, from behind a tree. His clothes looked rugged, but he didn’t seem like the crazy type. He did stare a lot, though, to which she held onto her gun. “Yeah, uh, let me know.”

“Everything okay?”

The man walked towards her, amused, tilting his head like he was studying every bit of her. “Yeah, it’s nothing, I gotta go.”

“Claire -”

“I’ll call you guys tonight.” _Click._ “I would step back, if I were you.”

“Oh?” he asked, “And why is that?”

She raised her eyebrows at him, clutching to her gun with both hands now. “It’s loaded, and I don’t care if you bleed to death, that’s why.”

“That’s a lie,” he said, “But, solid attempt. I’ll give you that.”

She held it up higher.

“You still have some of Castiel’s grace in you, you know that, right?” he said, “Just a tiny bit.”

“Who the hell _are you?”_

“I have many, many names,” he said, “But I prefer Lucifer.”

 


	19. Chapter Nineteen

_SHOT._

_SHOT. SHOT. SHO-_

“Hey!”

“Wait.” You didn’t even look _his_ way while you emptied two more rounds into the remaining demons’ bodies. “What do you want?”

Crowley, former _crossroads demon_ , current King of Hell, barely, looked outright offended at your entire posture. “What do I _want?”_ he asked, “Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps don’t _shoot the people who are trying to help you with devil’s traps!_ ”

“Oh, is that so?” you asked, “You want me to give your minions free reign over the place? So some dormant Lucifer _fangirl_ can ruin this whole thing and get us all killed? Yeah, I don’t _think so._ ”

He narrowed his eyes at you, before turning to your brothers, right behind you, for help. One of them shrugged, the other just snickered. “You could’ve just _drawn them_ ,” Crowley suggested, “Why would you invite us if you’re just going to pull something like _this?_ ”

“If you didn’t have anything to gain from this, you wouldn’t be here, Crowley, and you know it,” Sam pointed out. “She’s right. They stay put. Report if needed. But that’s it.”

“Told you it was a bad idea to try to team up with the evil Winchester.”

You pointed your gun towards the demon who spoke one more time, and shot. Twice. “Have fun taking those out after we’re done.”

“ _See?”_

“Y/N-” Dean started.

“He has _Claire_ ,” you said, “This has to go _exactly_ as planned or so _help me._ ”

He’d called earlier. Lucifer.

You’d tried to be discrete. To stay hidden. But he sniffed you out. Maybe it was something you did, or maybe it was the Brits’ one last _fuck you_ before they left you alone. Whatever it was, it alerted him, and that somehow led him to Claire, of all people. He followed her, you guessed, while she made the trip from the bunker to that Men of Letters stash. He followed her, and he took her, the son of a bitch, as a bargaining chip.

“ _Let’s just talk_ ,” he’d said, “ _No sigils, no traps. We don’t want Claire here to feel uncomfortable, now, do we?”_

Fuck him. Fuck him and his arrogant, all-knowing, assumptious tone. You could’ve taken it if it were you. You knew your brothers could, too, even if you didn’t want them to. But _Claire._ Claire was so young, so _inexperienced._ She was good, and she was driven, and you _promised._ Your one mission was not to turn the poor girl into an actual Winchester, in the middle of everything. And yet here she was, captured by the devil, because of _you._

“I know,” Dean said, hands raised, “But you need to _calm down_ , alright?”

“I agree with Dean,” Cas spoke, for the first time that whole night, “Heightened emotions help no one, _especially_ not Claire,” he said, “Until we get her out of there, we need to be extremely careful.”

You took a deep breath. Pinched the bridge of your nose. “I know,” you said, “I know, I’m sorry. It’s just -”

Her _voice._

He put her on speaker, as proof of life. She told him to fuck off, but you could hear it, the tremble. The fear. Everyone in the room could, and, maybe for the first time since that day you found out Lucifer walked the earth, before the apocalypse, the thought of meeting him didn’t shake your very core. It didn’t fill you with ice. Didn’t make you feel like you were about to depart from your own body.

You wanted the fucker dead, and you wanted him dead _now._

“So we meet tomorrow, then.”

“If you’re not on time -”

“I know,” Crowley said, hands raised, “I know. Your reputation precedes you.”

And with a snap of his fingers, he was gone.

You made your way back to the Impala, which Crowley also zapped here, so you could have a head-start, and your brothers and the angel followed. Once you were out of the demons’ earshot, you got your flask out of your duffel, and felt the liquor burn the back of your throat. “What about Jody?”

The whole car was silent for a solid minute.

“We can’t not tell her,” you said, “We already delayed this long enough. She deserves to know.”

“And what happens when she can’t sit back while the kid she basically adopted is held hostage?”

“Then I can’t blame her,” you told Dean, “But this feels wrong.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean said, “We’re keeping her safe. We’re keeping _them_ safe. Do you think Claire would want her dragged into this, too?”

“And what if -” You licked your lips. “What if this goes sideways? How are you gonna look her in the eye and tell her we kept this from her then?”

“If this goes sideways,” Dean said, “Which it _won’t_ , then maybe we don’t deserve to look her in the eye at all.”

You took another gulp of the whiskey.

“I dunno.”

“Sam -”

“Bobby would want to know.”

The metal flask had never seemed so small. So insufficient. “Yeah, he would.”

“Just,” Dean said, “If this goes as planned, then, great. Everyone walks out, and there was no need to call Jody anyway.” He paused. “And if it doesn’t, then we lose everyone. And Alex loses a mom and a sister on the same day.”

“Jesus.”

“He can’t help, either,” Cas said, “Not right now.”

“Promise me something.”

“I think it physically hurts every time you start with that sentence,” Dean said.

You looked down at your hands. “Just promise me something.”

“What?”

“If it comes down to it,” you said, “If it’s me or her, if Lucifer won’t let her go, then just. Just let me turn. And then figure out a way to kill me later. Maybe Gabriel’s blade would work, I dunno. But _save her_ , okay? Just. Do that.”

“We have quite a few failsafes in place,” Cas pointed out, “It won’t come to that.”

“You never know.”

“We’ll get her out first thing,” Dean said, “Okay? Now just - just stop. We need to rest. And we need to eat. And then tomorrow,” he said, “Tomorrow, we worry about this.”

\--

 _Tomorrow_ couldn’t come soon enough.

You’d agreed to meet at dawn. The road the demons were guarding was just off the highway, and it led to a warehouse that used to operate until just before the apocalypse when, according to Sam, who was citing news reports, everyone was found dead and hanging from crosses. So not only where you a day’s drive away from the spot you planned for over and over and over, you were on his turf, under his roof. He knew the place, better than you did, better than you could find, and you were walking in blind.

Well, basically.

You still had the blade. Well, one of you did. Castiel was the only one trusted to know and memorize the difference, since Lucifer would probably listen in on your thoughts, and you didn’t want him to know of its existence, let alone its existence with you. And you still had some spells, that you could invoke with minimal ingredients, and no sigils. Those were limited, though, and only a last-minute resort. You could’ve had a sophisticated trap drawn. This could’ve all ended in a matter of minutes - _minutes_ \- if you’d gone through with your original plan.

You’d thought this through. All of you did. And he crushed it all in a _second._

“You ready?” Sam asked.

No.

“Hey.” Dean’s hand rested on your shoulder. “It’s okay.”

“Maybe if you stop lying it will be,” Cas grumbled, on his way inside. So much for the lack of heightened emotions. “He’s inside. And so is she.”

You rolled the angel blade in one hand, the other checking on your gun, also made of other angel blades. Crowley was nowhere to be seen, the fucker, but you had to go in. If you didn’t, he’d come out. He’d taunt you. And he’d hurt her, no question. So you zeroed all your energy on the thought of Claire. Save Claire. Bring her home. In one piece.

Unlike the church, this place was abnormally bright, though still just as cold. In the middle, Lucifer sat, back in his old meatsuit - _Nick,_ legs crossed, a worn Bible in his hands. Claire was sitting next to him, staring off, like she wasn’t seeing you, or the three men that walked with you. He shut the book and shook his head. “So many metaphors,” he said, “Don’t you think?”

“Hello, brother.”

“ _Castiel,_ ” Lucifer said, “Still sticking to the Winchesters, I see.”

“And you,” Cas said, “Still _sticking_ to your old ways, I see.”

Lucifer frowned. “My old ways?” he repeated, “When, aeons ago, when we were in heaven, and you were just a fledgling? Or, maybe, a few years ago?” he asked, “You have to admit, this is _nothing_ in comparison.”

“Really?” Cas asked, “So, turning souls, starting a new cycle, in search for power over heaven and earth, that’s _new?_ ”

He shrugged. “Could’ve done this so many ways. After all, I _was_ the inspiration for a lot of the stuff _here_.” He held up the Bible. “But, what can I say? Years wear an angel out.”

“Father was too merciful with you,” Cas said, “Too _weak._ He should’ve killed you, from the start.”

“Ah, Cassie,” he said, “Even after all these years, you still believe God adheres to whatever definition of _good_ he drilled into us, into _them_.” He stood up. “It’s a _game._ Always has been, always will be. He doesn’t _care._ He never did. The first chance he had, he took off with the _Darkness._ After we fought her, after we fought for him, _twice._ And you still believe this is anything other than _chaos?”_

“And yet,” Cas said, “Even in the midst of chaos, rises hope,” he said, “Rises _good._ You belittling the concept does not make it any less _real._ Nor does taking it away for the sake of your ego.”

“You were a lot less annoying when I could just _mute you._ ”

“ _Too bad._ ”

“Are we going to do this all day?” Dean asked, “Seriously?”

Lucifer didn’t say anything, just flicked his hand in Dean’s general direction, turning to look only when nothing happened. No one moved. He tried again, then rolled his eyes. “You think that little spell will hold for long?”

 _We can try._ “Hand over the girl.”

“So _soon?_ We’re just getting _started!”_

“Hand over the girl,” you repeated, “And you can have me. That’s the deal.”

He tapped his chin with his finger. “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I don’t feel like it.”

 _Calm down._ Calm down. “What, you don’t want me anymore?”

“It’s not as much _that_ as it is that I don’t want to play. I can turn you, right here and now. I can start the process, and it will just be a few days. You’re so close already, just one tiny push…”

“Yeah, no,” you said, “If you didn’t need me to _let you_ , you would’ve done it already.”

“I don’t need you to let me,” he reassured you, “It would just be a lot easier if you didn’t resist. You know how that works.”

Your grip around the blade tightened.

“You remember, don’t you?” he asked, “What happened. Everything. Souls are tricky, you see. Bodies adjust to their souls when they’re created. They’re not meant to be resurrected, and even when the are, they’re not meant to hold a different soul, let alone a stronger one. Or two.

“So when you died, that bit of grace of mine you had left, it recreated the broken parts. Re-caliberated the entire thing again. So you remember now, don’t you?”

You hunched over, just the tiniest bit. It took every conscious thought in you, every speck of will, not to just lunge at him, plan be damned. It was just so much - _too_ much. The power that danced in your veins, the urge to save her, to snap her out of the trance she seemed to be in. The anticipation in your bones, waiting for him to snap, to punish. Everything that happened.

Especially - _especially -_ what happened _back there._

“Adam resisted. But he never stood a chance,” Lucifer said, “And that was _you._ Imagine what I could do with the tip of my fingers.”

He was right.

Dean didn’t want to know, but there _was_ a reason why _you_ were in control, and not Adam. You could make up excuses. You could say it wasn’t you, or that it didn’t count. But you knew better than that. You knew that circumstances don’t excuse. They might explain, but the don’t let you off the hook. Because the truth was, you took the deal.

It wasn’t even that hard.

Because the pain wouldn’t stop, even when _he_ did. The damage he’d done to you, over the centuries, was wearing down on your very existence. It was driving you _insane_. It was one thing being stuck with the devil, it’s a whole other thing to be on the receiving end of his rage, of his pettiness, of his vengeance. A plan he’d put in motion centuries ago, ruined by a bunch of humans.

So you took the deal.

You didn’t know what his point was, and you didn’t care. But he powered you up, in there. Just temporarily. Just enough. He let his grace flow to you, through you, until you could use it, for this one time. That one purpose.

Adam wasn’t afraid. He was tired, spent. He’d had enough of everything, of everyone in there, that he was turning into a shadow, just sitting in the corner, not really the center of Lucifer’s attention. He just had to endure Michael, and his attitude, and his sessions. He wasn’t afraid, but he hated it. Every second. Even at the promise of no pain. Even at the promise of an actual purpose.

He hated it, but you didn’t care.

You just wanted it to be over, so you did it. You twisted his soul. You burned through it, trimmed it, just as Lucifer wanted. He couldn’t combine two souls together. Not two full souls anyway. Every soul had its own protection, he’d said; nurture. The older a person was, the more protected their soul, the more layers that etched their memories, their experiences, everything that made them _them_ beyond fate or predetermined paths.

Their free will.

You didn’t know if you’d gone all the way. You couldn’t tell; you were too drained, too spent, by the time you stopped. But Lucifer seemed satisfied at the time, content, and that was good enough. That was enough to seal the deal, to get you what you wanted. And you hated it. Especially now, that you remember.

But you knew if you went back, you’d do it all over again.

“You know I’m good for it.”

“For what?”

“Loyalty,” you said, “ _Devotion._ Isn’t that what you want? You don’t just want to turn me, you want me to work for you.”

“And you’d do it?” he asked, “ _For her?”_ He turned around and placed his palm over Claire’s forehead. She gasped, and arched her back, but her eyes were still going nowhere, doing nothing. Sam’s grip on your forearm was the only thing holding you back, keeping the warmth that flooded through you in check. “I don’t see it.”

“ _What?”_ you spat.

“You’re not her family,” he said, “Not even close. Barely a friend, a coworker. But you’d risk everything you have for her?”

“Who said it has anything to do with her?” you asked, “I remembered. So I changed my mind.”

“No, that’s not it.” He tapped his chin with his forefinger. “Tell me why.”

“Seriously?”

He put one foot in front of the other. Leaned into his stance. “Tell me why,” he said, “And I’ll let my little brother here take her away. Safe and sound.”

“It’s simple,” you said, “She’s innocent. You have her. I want her out of here,” you said, “And I’ve got nothing to lose.”

“ _Beep._ Wrong. Try again.”

“Her mom’s a friend of mine,” you said, “And a friend of Bobby’s.”

“Still doesn’t quite _hit the note_ ,” he said, “Wanna hear my theory?”

“ _No,”_ Dean said, “Jesus fuck you talk a lot.”

“Oh you have an opinion about that, _Dean?”_

“Why don’t we cut to the chase?” Dean said, “Let the girl go, and we’ll go with her.”

“Oh, yeah, _of course_ ,” Lucifer said, the corners of his lips turning down, his voice dripping with mockery, “You’ll let go of your dear little sister, just like that.”

“Did it before,” Dean said, “Will do it again.”

You took a deep breath.

“And what about you, huh?” Lucifer said, walking towards Sam. You could see Castiel moving, subtly, slowly, towards Claire’s general direction, gaze focused on the archangel. “My true vessel. Will you go, too?”

“No,” Sam admitted. _Goddammit it, Sam. Stick to the script. Stick to the damn script._ “I will hunt you down,” he said, “And I will send you back where you belong.”

“See, ladies and gentlemen?” Lucifer said, arms extended next to him, “ _This_ is how you say the truth. Thank you, Sammy.”

“But I’ll leave. Now. If you hand her over,” Sam said, “I’ll give you a good headstart, too.”

“ _Oh._ ”

“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“ _Sammy.”_

“I will hunt you down,” Sam said, “And I’ll pay you back. For everything. For _me._ For _her._ For _Cas._ ”

Cas didn’t respond. Just slid his foot in Claire’s direction. But Lucifer _grinned_ like it was his birthday. “Little Sammy,” he said, “Wearing the big boy pants. This is getting _good._ ”

Cas finally made it to Claire, pressed two fingers to her forehead, bringing her gaze to focus with a _gasp._ Lucifer just rolled his eyes, and flicked both of them against the wall. They pounced back, holding almost the exact same pose, so much that you wondered if Cas had let his original vessel dictate much of his movements for him. But unlike Cas, she was panting, frantic. Hands gripping her pants, trying to find a weapon, you assumed, or _something._

“You know, Castiel,” Lucifer said, “I always thought you were a little weird, but I didn’t think you were _stupid._ ”

“Maybe I’m stupid,” Cas said, “But at least I’m not _desperate_.”

No. No, no, no, no. Claire wasn’t out yet, it wasn’t safe, he couldn’t just say the word, and -

“ _Now._ ”

_Fuck._

In a second, Sam was on one side of Lucifer, Dean on the other, both chanting the same spell at the same time. A trap. A small one. A temporary one. It barely held that one angel that one time, but it was better than nothing. And it was enough to disorient Lucifer. Cas practically dragged Claire, and made a run for it.

You stood, in the middle, your hands warm, your eyes, you were sure, burning red.

“Stupid,” Lucifer mumbled, eyes closed as if he was trying to summon the patience, “Stupid, _stupid, stupid!”_

“Is that a new song?”

Crowley. The fucker.

Lucifer raised his hand, but you caught it, focusing all your energy on binding him, containing him, but it only lasted a minute. A minute Crowley used to lay out an actual trap, complete with holy fire, and light it up. “I didn’t know you were the singing type.”

“You know how this ends.”

Crowley started prepping the bowl, with the ingredients for the spell he thought would send Lucifer back to the Cage, and snapped his fingers. A redhead showed up, out of thin air, grumbling, her attention on the spell.

“You think you can hold me for long?”

He snatched your arm and with a twist broke it in half.

“I _made you!”_

He kicked your legs. Sent you stumbling, screaming, aching, to the ground.

“I _know you!”_

He snatched you by your neck and held your face up. You were shaking, frozen, _weak._ The blade in your hand tumbled down to the ground, and you felt it. That - that feeling you got, when you were with him. Maybe he healed the _damage_ , but he didn’t erase the memories. He _wouldn’t._ Years - _years -_ of hunting. Of training. Of conditioning. Months of prepping. Of spells. Of focus. Of nothing but the thought of freedom.

All down the drain.

“When I’m done with you,” he said, “You’re going to _wish_ you were back in the Cage. And you will be, soon enough.”

If you could just _angle_ your hand just right -

“I made a claim on your _soul_ , do you know what that _means_?”

_Just a couple of inches -_

“It means wherever _I_ go,” he said, “ _You_ go. Maybe not now. But soon enough.”

_Just -_

“I was going to do this the easy way,” he said, “Just turn you, and that’s that. But maybe I should take my time, hmm?” He angled your face towards him. “Maybe I should do it the _old fashioned way._ ”

“Dean!” Sam hollored. “ _Now.”_

You narrowed your eyes at Lucifer. “ _Fuck you._ ”

“You _really_ haven’t learned anything, have you?”

“I’ve learned -” You swallowed. “- that I don’t give a _shit._ Torture me,” you said, “Turn me. It won’t make it better,” you said, “But it won’t make it worse, either.”

“You wanna _bet?”_

“ _You_ ,” you said, “And your minions, and your _plans_ ,” you said, “You took everything from me. Everything from my _family_ ,” you said, “But you still think I’ve got more to lose. Like my life means anything. Like my pain is worth anything. It’s _not._ It’s not, you fucker. So you can do whatever you want. You can put me back. You can surprise me,” you said, “Tell me this whole thing was an elaborate trick, and I’m still in hell,” you said, “I don’t _give a shit anymore._ ”

You _got the blade._

“I just want you _gone.”_

It hurt like a _bitch_ , but you were able to move your shoulder back enough to stab him in the gut with the blade in your hand. His lips parted, and his knees trembled, just the slightest bit. Crowley made a snide comment on the side, something about how insane you were being with a stunt like that, but you _had him._ You’d stabbed him, and it _took_ , and it looked like -

Nothing. It was nothing. He stood straight up, pulled it out of his body, and laughed.

“This - _this_ was your grand plan?” he asked, “I mean, I know you weren’t around for a lot of the angel drama back in the day, but did you really think no one’s ever tried to stab me with an angel blade before?”

You shrugged with your good shoulder. As much as you could, without giving in. Without falling apart. And then you saw it.

This time, his lips didn’t part, his knees didn’t tremble, but he flashed white and so, _so_ bright, the edge of Gabriel’s blade sticking out of his chest. His body stumbled, and he fell down with a loud thud. Wings, so big, and so _unusual,_ you noticed, spread on the ground beneath him. Damaged, but not torn. Perfect, but angled down, instead of up, like the ones you remembered seeing.

Sam stood behind him, bloody blade in hand.

“For me,” he breathed, “For _her_. For Cas.”

 


	20. Chapter Twenty

There was a time when counting seconds made you sane.

When you were possessed. When you were held captive by your brothers to get you to detox. When you were in hell, because no matter how Dean tried to describe it, it was never quite measurable. It could be days, or seconds, or years, and you wouldn’t know how to keep count. All you had for reference are the routines, the cycles. Whenever a new cycle started, that was a new day to you. Flames ran brighter in the mornings. By the evenings, Lucifer would reach his peak, and Michael would stop to rest.

But some days - some days you had to guess. To count.

Because Lucifer wasn’t a torturer, not by nature. He didn’t take pleasure in watching you endure what was represented as physical pain, no. He always thought that was the least effective part, the most boring. No. It wasn’t him. It didn’t really _do it_ for him unless he held something over your head, unless you’d reached the point where not only did you anticipate the physical pain, but you _ached for it_. You wanted it, because it overtook your senses. Because it made it easier to process. Physical pain was pure. Devoid. Of hope, of _hurt_ , of everything that came with it.

You counted the seconds he _wasn’t_ putting you in actual, physical pain.

But you let yourself believe, this one time. When you found yourself in Dean’s arms. When you saw your mom. When you felt the grass beneath you, and the air inside your lungs. It was just so real, so _good_ , so tempting. It lacked that layer of strain, that thinly veiled _flare_ that usually took over his tricks, the days where he stopped and just let you be, just so he could drag you back again.

This time, you didn’t count.

But maybe you should have. Maybe you should have been counting. Should’ve been keeping track. Because despite its ups and downs, this - _this_ \- was too good to be true. Too good not to be a trick. This was _peak good._ It reached a level you’d never thought you’d reach. It was so indulgent. So _neat._ After all of those years. After everything each and every one of you had gone through, the reason behind it all was dead. Sam _killed him_ and the wings were there to prove it.

If you were going to be pulled back, it was going to be _now._

“ _Hey_.”

You’d been heaving, maybe for the last minute or so. But you couldn’t help it, not really. You’d taken your shot, and it failed, but somehow, somewhere deep inside, you’d expected it to fail. But Sam. Sam did it. Lucifer wasn’t moving. He wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t showing up somewhere else. Your limbs were cold, and your broken arm was going to drive you insane if the scene in front of you didn’t do it first.

“Hey, you’re okay,” Dean said, rubbing his hand over your back, “You’re okay. It’s over. It’s over.”

You crawled forward, on your knees, the good arm keeping the broken one in place, and traced your finger over the mark of his wings. It was still warm, and it didn’t come off when you applied pressure. Or when Sam’s gigantic shoes stepped over them, and bent. “Come on.” He lowered his hand so it made it to your level. “We should go.”

Before you could take his hand, though, the whole place faded into a white, warm light.

You braced yourself for it. For the taunt, and the whip, and the hurt. But it faded away. All of it. The only thing left in there were people, who’d shown up there, out of the blue, with a soft flutter of wings. Angels. Weren’t those sons of bitches supposed to be incompetent now, or something?

“We sensed the disturbance in celestial energy,” one of them explained, “We had to see for ourselves.”

“You should go,” another one said, “We will handle it from here.”

“Where were _you_ fuckers when he was running around after the whole thing with Amara?” Dean asked, “How’d you get here anyway?”

“When we heard of this event,” the first one explained, “Joshua opened a portal here, directly to heaven.”

“You could’ve helped.”

“No, Castiel,” First said, “We weren’t about to lose more of our brothers and sisters to another one of your so-called causes.”

“So what are you doing here, exactly?” Cas asked, stepping in front of Claire, who didn’t make an effort to resist. Crowley and his redhead were nowhere to be seen. “This is merely an empty, deceased vessel,” Cas said, “Modified as it was.”

“That is correct,” First said, “And yet, it is not an ordinary angel that died here,” he said, “The vessel is bound to contain traces of Lucifer, which can be used for spells, or to power up demons,” he said, “Or worse, to try to get him back from The Empty.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Between you and me, brother, I don’t think anything is impossible at this point. His work is perfect, but perhaps we misinterpret perfection,” he said, “That is, of course, only one reason why we’re here. The other being _her._ ”

“Take one step in her general direction,” Sam said, “And I’ll kill you _myself._ ”

“You misunderstood our intentions completely,” First said, standing in front of you. “We know about your cure.”

“What?”

“We’ve observed the Men of Letters for a long, long time,” he explained, “Especially the Winchesters. We noticed you. And we noticed the work they’ve done to cure you.”

“And?”

“It’s flawed.”

“Tell us something we don’t know.”

“What?” Dean asked Sam, “You found out something?”

“Not _now_.”

Dean grumbled, but stayed silent.

“You think there are discrepancies in the notes,” First said, “That they might not do what they are intended to do exactly, and you would be correct. The last part of the spell,” he said, “The one that’s supposed to evict the other soul to be reaped has been modified to send that soul to Cuthbert Sinclair’s personal _collection._ ”

“Fuck.”

“But that can be easily adjusted,” First said, “If you remove everything after the eviction itself. The part that’s supposed to be about calling for a reaper.”

“Uh,” Dean said, “That’s great and all, but why are you helping us, again?”

“You killed Lucifer,” First said, “This is a one-time thing. Think of it as a thank you.”

“We won’t be doing any modifications without conducting our own research first,” Cas warned.

“Brother,” First said, “I don’t care. I also didn’t come here to say this.”

“Then what is it?” you asked.

“I came here with an offer, for you.”

“An offer?”

“Lucifer has made a claim over both your souls,” he explained, “And this means, when you die here, you will also go to The Empty, where he currently is.”

“And?”

“And I would like to offer you heaven.”

“What?”

“We can rid you of the claim,” he said, “You wouldn’t be the first human he’d done this with. It’s not as binding as it sounds,” he explained, “However.”

“However.”

“You have to know,” he said, “You wouldn’t be separated from your brother, Adam. You would still exist as a single entity. It would be mostly your heaven,” he explained, “Given the _status_ of your brother’s soul. But he will be trapped in there as well,” he said, “Only experiencing heaven through you, as he is experiencing earth at the moment.”

“What if we go through with the cure?” Sam asked, “Can you wait until then to remove the claim?”

“That is part of the reason why I’m here,” First said, “The cure might not work as expected.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asked.

“I mean,” First said, “The combination of those spells,” he said, “To target a certain soul, to use some of it to evict the other that’s fused into it the way it is,” he said, “This will require sacrifice I don’t believe was properly grasped by Henry Winchester.”

“What kind of sacrifice?” Claire asked.

“Some of the loss from the energy used to cast the spells might be permanent.”

“And that means?” Dean asked.

“It means,” he said, “Whatever part of her soul that gets used in the spell might not recover. It could be nothing, just raw energy,” he explained, “Or it could be something more visible. Changes to who she is, at the very core of her.”

“And?” you asked, “So?”

“So there is a chance you might become a completely different person while retaining the same biological qualities,” he said, “It is impossible to say to which degree this will happen. But this so-called cure _will_ scald your soul beyond repair.”

“So it could be nothing.”

“Or it could be everything,” he said, “So you can go down this path, or you can take our offer, and live the rest of eternity in heaven.”

“Do you really need an answer this instant, Micah?” Cas asked.

“No,” he said, “I don’t. This offer does not have a time limit,” he promised, “Unless, of course, one of you betrays us first.”

The silence was awkward at best.

“Is that supposed to be a joke?” Cas asked.

Micah sighed. “Time on earth has rid you of your sense of humor, Castiel.” He put his hands together. “Now, please. Leave this to us. Leave. Heal. Decide,” he said, “And when you do, all you have to do is pray.”

Now. Now was when you should’ve started counting.

\--

“...three, four cheeseburgers, and a Caesar salad. Is that all?”

“That’s perfect,” Claire said, picking up the plastic bags, “Thanks!”

You followed on her trail as she walked back towards the motel. “Claire, stop.”

“How many times do I have to tell you?” she asked, “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” you said, “And no one expects you to be -”

“Maybe that’s the problem.” She turned around, coming to a complete stop. “You don’t think I’m tough enough. You don’t think I can take it.”

You glanced around you, but the parking lot was empty. “You wanna talk _tough?”_ you asked, “Dean was _tough_. He kept everything inside. And it got him killed. Sent to hell. He was never the same after that,” you said, “I was tough. It got me possessed. It got me addicted. It drove the people I love away. It ruined my _life._ ”

“You say that because hunters have to be tough,” she argued, “And you hate this life.”

“That’s _beside_ the point,” you said, “You can kick ass and still sit down and talk about what’s going on with you like an _adult_.”

She pursed her lips.

“You were captured by the _devil_ ,” you said, “I can count the people who survived that on one hand, and we’re two of them. That’s badass enough.”

“You came in and saved me.”

“Just _listen_ ,” you said, “God knows I’m the last one to go for the heart-to-heart, but I know it’s wrong, alright? I know that now, when it’s too late to do jack shit about it.”

“So what?” she asked, “Are we gonna sit down, draw a circle, call it a safe space?” she asked, “And then I can talk about what the big bad angel did to me, and we’ll cry it out? Is that it?”

“You’re giving me Dean flashbacks. Seriously.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Alright fine, don’t talk to me. At least talk to Alex. Or Jody.”

“What makes you think I’m telling either of them this happened?” she asked, “They won’t let me two feet outside the house if they knew!”

“Really?” you asked, “That’s how you think it’s gonna go?”

“I _know it_ ,” she said, “Alex might be all talk. But Jody will put me on lockdown.”

“You sound like a _teenager_ ,” you accused, “You’re a grown woman. You can sit down with your mom and talk to her, explain,” you said, “Reason. Listen to her advice. And choose what to do.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

“Am I really gonna have to throw in a _do as I say, not as I do?_ ”

She crossed her arms, the bags dangling on her sides.

“You have a chance I never had. Or I did,” you said, “And I fucked it up. If I could do this all over, I would do it like that. I’d stick to Bobby. I’d trust him. I’d tell him when I was scared, when I needed him. When I needed _them._ ”

“God, you’re lame.”

“She gives a shit about you,” you said, “From the sound of it, they both do.”

“Alex hates what I do. She wants to be normal.”

“The best friend I had in this world,” you said, “Was some kid who knew nothing about hunting. She was the definition of normal. White picket fence and all.”

“Because she didn’t know what you did?”

“Because she’s human,” you said, “This job, it eats at you. It makes you less than. Fucks up your entire perspective,” you said, “It’s nice to remember life exists outside of monsters every once in a while.”

“So where is she now?” she asked, “Why haven’t you talked to her since you came back?”

“I haven’t talked to her since _high school_ ,” you said, “Shit happens. People drift apart. That doesn’t make my point any less valid.”

“So, what now?”

“Now,” you said, “You go in there. We eat. We sleep. We make this goddamn cast less neon pink -” You held up your broken arm, the one Castiel couldn’t heal all the way. “- and then we go back to the bunker. You get your things. You tell us about that stash you found. And you let us handle it.”

She sighed.

“All of it.”

_Grimace._

“And then you let one of us drive you back home, make sure no one’s after you for whatever reason,” you said, “And you get some rest. You talk to your mom. You make a pie and whine about your life and try to convince her ripped jeans you pay for are actually a good idea.”

_Eye roll._

“You _heal,_ you hear me? You fix this. And then go back to slicing monsters if you want.”

“What about you?”

“If you do all this,” you said, “And I’m still kicking, find me. I’ll probably be at Bobby’s. We’ll paint walls and wear overalls.”

“You _are_ lame.”

“Shut up.”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“I’ll give it a shot,” she said, “But if she does lock me up I _will_ be using one of the spells I found at the bunker to break out. And I can’t guarantee I won’t burn anything down.”

\--

“You know if you just put your finger in there, it will draw blood on its own, right?”

Sam looked at you like you’d just grown a second _head._ He wrapped the clean cloth he’d brought with him on his self-inflicted cut and pulled the door to the basement up. “I didn’t survive this long to be killed by an infection, thank you very much.”

At the raise of your eyebrows, Dean shrugged. “It’s not the _worst_ idea.”

You moved to walk down the stairs, and Sam stopped you. “Let’s wait a bit,” he said, “Claire said this place seriously needed some fresh air, and we might be down there a while, so.”

“This is the most boring quest to find out more about a magic spell I’ve ever seen.”

Sam breathed a laugh. “I think we’ve had enough _interesting_ to last us another century.”

“Interesting is one way to put it.”

Dean buried his hands in his pockets. Shifted his weight on his legs. “So while we have some time…”

“What?”

“How are you two doing?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” both you and Sam said in the same breath.

“Right. So -” He pointed at Sam. “- Mr. No Time For A Drink and -” Now you. “- Miss Hasn’t Slept A Full Four Hours, are fine?”

You let Sam take the first turn. “Dean, I’m - I’m great. Seriously,” he said, “I just. I guess I need some time to just -”

“Wrap our heads around it,” you suggested.

“Yeah, that,” Sam said, “It just doesn’t feel real, you know? Maybe once this is over,” he said, “We can get a fresh start, you know?”

“A fresh start?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, “We can figure out how we can move forward. In a world without Lucifer,” he said, “And no, you know, big bad running after us. With Mom, too, maybe.”

“Sam, the thing with Mom -”

“I know,” Sam told Dean, “I know it’s complicated. But we’re going to have to call her soon anyway, if everything in there checks out.”

“ _Why?”_ you asked.

“Because,” he said, “Remember how the first spell calls for blood from your maternal bloodline? Someone who shares that with you, but doesn’t have any, well, Winchester in them.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” he said, “She’s the only Campbell left. And as far as we know, she didn’t have any kids with someone other than Dad.”

“Who knows?” you said, “Maybe we have a long-lost sister out there she gave up for adoption when she was a teenager, or something.”

“Wow,” Dean said, “How much time did you and Bobby spend on Soap Operas, exactly?”

“Guess we do need her, huh.”

“Look, if it’s any consolation,” Dean said, “I think she’ll help.”

“ _Why?”_

He took a deep breath. “Because Dad would,” he said, “Doesn’t mean anything. Just means it aligns with her _code_ , or whatever.”

“I think you’re being a little harsh here,” Sam noted.

“You didn’t hear her, that day,” Dean said, “It felt like I was talking to Dad all over again. I’m telling you, it wasn’t just Cupid. They were _made_ for each other.”

“She’s just -” Sam started, “It’s just overwhelming for her, I think. She doesn’t know what we know.”

“And you think we should, what?” you asked, “Teach her? Try to convince her we’re good enough?”

“I’m just saying,” Sam said, “With some effort, maybe we can work this out. Find a middle ground.”

Dean gave you one of his _can-you-hear-this-shit_ faces. You scoffed. “Don’t look at _me_ ,” you said, “You’re the one who let him be the hippie that he is.”

“You were there,” Dean argued, “It was _unstoppable._ ”

“Guys.”

“I think we could’ve worked a little harder,” you said, “Obviously the direct approach wasn’t successful, but -”

“ _Guys.”_

“I’m _just saying,_ ” you said, “You could’ve turned out to be _normal._ ”

“Oh yeah,” Sam said, fake-frowning and turning to walk down the stars, “Super normal. Like you two. Zero emotional intelligence,” he said, “Negative number of healthy relationships with people. Every person’s dream.”

“How did we get a _negative?”_

“I counted in all the relationships you’ve had.”

“You don’t know all the relationships _I’ve_ had,” you said.

“One night stands don’t count.”

“ _Du-ude_ ,” Dean said. “Can we not go there?”

“Relax, Dean,” you said, “No self-respecting person can break your record.”

Sam snickered.

“Alright, alright,” Dean said, hands raised, following both of you down, “I give up. This conversation is over.”

“But it’s just starting to be _fun._ ”

“We’ve got work to do, remember?”

“Fine,” you said, “But, thank you.”

“What for?” Dean asked.

“For still being the uptight jerk I remember you to be.”

“I’m not _uptight._ ”

“Holy shit,” Sam said.

“Dude, please,” you said, “You’re like -”

“ _Guys. Stop. Look._ ” Sam held up some of the files Claire left scattered on the floor. “She wasn’t exaggerating.”

You took one of them from him. “What do you mean?”

“Look,” he said, giving one to Dean as well, “Those are the Oliver logs.”

You opened the one in your hand. It wasn’t too thick, maybe fifteen or so pages. But it was also logging every single thought, every single thing Oliver did in _one day._ Every fleeting thought he caught from someone, every new thing he learned about himself in his classes, _everything._

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, “If the Brits even had a _summary_ of the files in here…”

“Holy _shit._ ”

“So this,” Dean said, “This should tell us what we want to know?”

Sam nodded. “If it’s true,” he said, “And nothing could block Oliver from reading Henry’s mind,” he said, “And he stayed paired with him the whole time…”

“We can know what Henry thought,” you said, “About the cure. About everything in there.”

“Yes,” Sam said, “We can know what was his idea,” he said, “And what was Sinclair’s.”

“And then we double check those,” Dean said, “With Cas, or maybe Rowena.”

“Dude, Rowena?” Sam asked, “Really?”

“Must be something we have she wants,” Dean said, “It wouldn’t be a big deal anyway. And we did just save her ass from Lucifer.”

“Could work.”

“Who’s Rowena?” you asked.

“The redhead,” Dean said, “The one that came in with Crowley.”

“Oh.”

“She’s his mother.”

“...tell me you’re not serious.”

“Oh we _are_ ,” Dean said, “She’s his biological mother, from when he was human.”

“Wow.”

“Welcome to our lives.”

“And somehow my long lost sister theory is too much like Soap Opera for you?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “So how are we gonna do this?”

Sam sat down, his back to the shelves. “Y/N and I can go through those,” he said, “You go through the Winchester files. See if you find anything interesting. Start with Henry. How does that sound?”

“Like a plan,” you said, “Let’s do this.”

\--

“Are you sure you wanna do this?”

The mattress dipped with your weight, next to Castiel. Sam sat on the chair across from you, his glass in his hand, rolling it around like it was supposed to taste any better if he did this. You nodded. “It’s the fastest way,” you said, “And the one most likely to work.”

Dean crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the doorframe. “And if Adam says no?”

“I still have to ask.”

See, the cure checked out.

The side effects were still unknown, and the part about calling for a reaper wasn’t something Henry could explain, according to the logs. To a reasonable degree of certainty, according to Sam, Micah’s story checked out. Now all any of you had to do was gather the ingredients for the spells, and just do it.

But it wasn’t that simple.

Adam had to have a word in this. Whatever side effects that were expected to happen were expected to hit you alone, but no one really speculated what could happen to the evicted soul, Adam’s. Or what could happen if the first spell failed, and Adam’s soul was the one targeted, and it kicked _you_ out. There were just too many unknowns, and while you were willing to take the risk, you weren’t sure he was. Especially with Micah’s offer on the table.

So you had to ask.

You heard him, you communicated with him, in your dreams before. Especially those dreams where you were aware you’d been dreaming - what are they called - _lucid dreams._ Those had been happening a lot ever since you’d come back, which probably had something to do with your powers. But they weren’t a guarantee, especially when Lucifer was starring in your dreams as of late, so you had to make sure.

African Dream Root could do that.

But you needed to be in your head, and drinking the root with your own DNA inside would be fatal, so you had to ask someone else to do it. Someone you trusted. Sam. Dean didn’t want to anyway, because he knew the connection was a two-way street, and neither of you wanted to be in the other’s head right now.

Sam wasn’t too excited either, but he said he’d do it.

“I know you have to ask, I get it,” Dean said, “But what if he says no?”

“Then I take Micah’s offer,” you said, “And when I die, I go to heaven. Or, at least,” you said, “I don’t get sent to The Empty just because Lucifer is there.”

“And you live with your powers.”

“I live with my powers.”

“And Mom?”

“Guess she’ll have to live with that, too.”

“Or kill you.”

“I can’t base a decision that affects both me and Adam on her reaction.”

“Still.”

“I know,” you said, “But no one out there can turn me like Lucifer could. Not without centuries of human years in hell. So technically,” you said, “She should have nothing to worry about.”

“You and I both know it’s not that,” he said, “It’s the concept of it.”

“Maybe. Still.”

“And if he says yes?” Sam asked.

“Sam.”

“I have lost you too many times, in so many ways,” Sam said, “If there’s nothing wrong with you, and you’re not in any danger, but we do this anyway,” he said, “And it does something to your very _soul_ , I don’t think I can live with that.”

“You can,” you said, “And you _will._ ”

He licked his lips.

“Besides,” you said, “There’s still a good chance nothing will happen, and it will all go smoothly.”

“You’ve read the report,” he said, “You’ve read the logs. You’ve seen our lives. When has anything ever ended will for us?”

“Just a few days ago, actually,” you said, “You killed the fucking _devil._ ”

“Yeah, but,” he said, “Two strikes in a row? Come on.”

“You wanna go fuck up a hunt first?”

“I’m really,” he said, “ _Really_ not in the mood to joke about it right now.”

“It’s gonna be okay,” you reassured him, “It’s what I want. You can’t blame yourself for it, for any of it.”

He sunk in his seat.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, okay?” Dean said, “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

“Good,” he said, “Don’t stay in there too long. You got a couple of hours, that should be enough for an entire cycle, right?”

“Yes,” Cas said.

“Break out if it gets too -” He waved his hands around. “You know what I mean.”

“I know.”

“I’ll make sure it doesn’t get too -” Sam imitated his brother. “Let’s just get it done.”

“Alright,” you said, “Cas?”

Castiel pressed two fingers to your forehead, and you felt your muscles relax.


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

Most of your dreams were here.

It was the default place, you supposed. Your home, in the deepest, darkest pits of your mind: Bobby’s place, from the time you were a teenager. It didn’t have nearly as much clutter as it had just before the apocalypse. Not nearly enough spell ingredients, either. Just some books, some guns. Some yours. Some Bobby’s.

You never really knew why it was _this_ version of Bobby’s that was stuck in your dreams, but it was still nice; you had your own room, where you’d actually kept _stuff._ Journals. Music. Some textbooks, from when you thought there was a slight chance you might go to college. Gifts you didn’t want to lose, from Dean, from Sam, from Claire Deacon. Even the living room, and the kitchen, had a bit of _you_ in them.

But you had no time to waste reminiscing inside your own dream. You had to find Adam, before this dream cycle is over; it could take an hour in dream time, or a week, or even a year, so you had to assume the worst. You had to assume you’d be pulled out any second now, and you really didn’t feel like repeating this over and over until it worked. If you could help it, you wanted it to be done _now._

“Adam?” you called, “Adam, we need to talk.”

But no one answered.

He usually sought you out, or just popped up while you were mid-dream. You didn’t know how to call for him, exactly, so you just assumed he was always listening. But if he was listening to your repeated calls, he was actively ignoring you.

You sighed. “Adam, please,” you said, “If you can hear me, it’s important.”

“Who’s _Adam?_ ”

You turned on your heel to find Bobby, grocery bags in hand, heading towards the kitchen. Maybe you’d had most of your dreams here, but he wasn’t there. Not recently. Not since you came _back_. The last you’d had of him, in your head, was that letter he left you. The one Jody showed you that night at her house.

“Uh…”

“Well?” he said, “You bringing boys back here when I’m not around?”

“No,” you promised, like you were sixteen again, “No boys.”

“So you were just talking to yourself just now? Nice try.”

“Um.”

“ _Um?”_

“What are we having for dinner?”

He raised his eyebrow under his cap, but played along. “Chicken. You wanna help?”

“You know I can’t cook.”

“And, what, I’m a Michelin star chef?” he said, “If you can behead a vampire, you can cut some onions.”

He washed his hands in the sink, and started getting out ingredients. Chicken. Canned soup, for some reason. Onions. He handed you a knife. “How do you want them?”

He reached into his pocket and got out a scrunched piece of paper. “Sliced.”

“Did you get that from a magazine?” you asked, “Is that how bored you are? Really?”

He rolled his eyes. “No, smartass,” he said, “I met with Sheriff Mills today. We were talking, and she gave me this.”

“Why’d you meet with her?” you asked, “What did you _do?_ ”

“Oh yeah,” he said, “Play that card. Pull your brother’s puppy eyes while you’re at it, too, why don’t you?”

“...why do I need the puppy eyes again?”

“What?” he asked, “You telling me you’re not the one who broke into the Jacksons’ house last night?”

“I did?”

He reached out into his pocket and slipped out a wristband that looked an awful lot like the one you had when you were maybe 20, or maybe 21. “One day,” he grumbled, rinsing the chicken, “You’re going to get a record. A real one. You’ll be wanted for a _felony_ , and no one will be able to help you,” he said, “Not me, not your dad, not your brothers,” he said, “Not even the Sheriff.”

If he knew. If he only _knew._

“I don’t want this life for you,” he said, “You’re a lot smarter than that, kid,” he said, “You can live a good life, even if you keep hunting. Have I ever told you about Ellen Harvelle?”

You shook your head. He hadn’t, at the time. Not that you remembered.

“She’s a friend of mine,” he said, “Owns a hunter’s roadhouse. One of the best people I know,” he said, “She’s got a legit life. A family. A business. And she’s a great hunter. No one’s out there looking for her,” he said, “I’m not saying she has an easy life, but she _has_ a life,” he said, “Which is more than I can say for you, if you keep up what you’re doing.”

You kept your attention on the onions.

“You can do that,” he said, “It’s not too late. But you need to get your head out of your ass, you hear me?”

“I’m…”

“I know what you’re gonna say,” he sighed, “You’re _careful_ ,” he said, “You’re not really hurting anyone, but, kid, you are,” he said, “You’re tearing apart at any chance of normal you have.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, that’s what I wanted to say,” you said, sniffing away the sting of the onions, “I’m sorry.”

“You’re - what?”

“I’m sorry, Bobby,” you said, laying the knife down, “I know you’re disappointed.”

“Now, I didn’t say -”

“No, just, let me,” you said, “I need to - I need to say this.”

“Alright,” he said, “What is it?”

“I’m sorry,” you said, “I can’t - I can’t say it enough. But I am. I know you - you don’t deserve - you didn’t deserve what I put you through. You were so good to me,” you said, “You took me in when you didn’t have to,” you said, “You looked out for me. But all I did -” You shrugged. “I just. I kept disappointing you. And you didn’t deserve that,” you said, “And I’m sorry.”

“Kid -”

“I’m so, so sorry,” you said, “I wish I could tell you how much. I wish I had the chance. Maybe - maybe one day, somehow. But I wish you’d just know. I didn’t - I didn’t mean - I just - I didn’t mean to hurt you.” You licked your lips. “I’m sorry.”

He put the bowl he was holding down. “I just wanted you to be happy.”

You took a deep, shaky breath. “I know.”

“But nothing worked with you,” he said, “Dean - Dean was always a little tough, and Sam’s a good kid, but _you._ ” He shook his head. “You were just unreachable. Even Dean had breakthroughs. But you. You just kept running away, even when you were right here.”

For that moment, just one moment, you wondered if your powers had done something. If this was, somehow, actually Bobby, not a time-frozen dream version of him. But then he picked up the damn chicken again, and started stuffing it with vegetables.

“But I’m telling you,” he said, “It’s not too late. Maybe I should take you to the roadhouse sometime. Jo’s a little younger than Sam, but I think you’d get along well.”

You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand. “Yeah,” you said, “Sounds great.”

“You done with the onions yet?”

“Yeah, I -”

_Knock._

“I’mma get that.” You pulled the front door, but no one was there. “Adam?” you called, “Adam, if that’s you, you gotta find a way to talk to me.” Nothing. “Adam?”

You stepped out, and your view shifted. Bobby’s house disappeared, and you were somewhere else. Much whiter. Much brighter. And smelled like rubbing alcohol. Out of the corner of your vision, someone was rushing towards you. Wait - you knew that guy. It’s that nurse, from you woke up in the past - what’s-his-name - Cohen! Cohen from Michigan Medicine.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” he said, “You can’t just take off like that! Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“Sam’s looking for you.”

Oh. Yeah. _Of course_. Sam was the one with the dream root. He was in control of this entire thing, wasn’t he? He must’ve ended up in a different place in your head. “Where is he?”

He pointed you to the corridor from the Psych ward, the one that led to the rooms. It was all dark, except for bright, yellow light coming from the farthest one in there. Cohen pointed to it. “There,” he said, “Let’s go.”

\--

Sam came to in the bunker.

He wouldn’t have realized the dream root actually worked if the place wasn’t so quiet, so empty. He walked around for a while, tried calling for his sister, but his voice echoed in the empty halls. It had been years since he last used the dream root, so he wasn’t sure if he’d done something wrong, if he should be in more control somehow. So he kept walking, and walking, and calling -

A figure walked past him, to the kitchen.

“Y/N?” he called, “Is that you?”

Sitting in the kitchen, though, wasn’t Y/N; it was Adam. Wearing the same clothes he wore the day he was Michael, the last they saw of him. He flipped through the fridge. “The food you eat is terrible.”

“Adam.”

“And you’re Sam,” Adam said, settling on a sandwich Sam remembered leaving in their actual fridge the day before. “We’re half-brothers.”

Sam frowned. “Yeah,” he said, “We’ve _met._ ”

Adam shrugged. “I don’t remember much of my time alive,” he said, “As a separate person, of course.”

“What?” Sam asked, “Why?”

Adam shoved the sandwich inside the microwave. “Part of the process that led to _this_ ,” Adam said, “That’s why I have no control over what she does.”

“So you’re not... _you?_ ”

“I suppose in a way I am,” he said, “I’m also not. I know my name. I know the facts she knows about me,” he said, “I experience physical surroundings, dreams, you name it, through her. This is why -” He took the sandwich out. “- I’m making the most of the time I have now. It’s one of the few moments I have real autonomy.”

That sounded a lot like being possessed, Sam thought, with a layer of memory loss on top. Did she know about this? Was this why she insisted she’d ask him first? He could understand that, even if it meant she could choose to go through with the cure. Possession was a sore spot for her, so being somehow responsible for _this_ must’ve been hard.

“Do you know why I’m here?”

He nodded, munching on the food. “I know.”

“And?” Sam asked, “Have you made a decision?”

He stopped, leaning back in his seat. “Maybe.”

“Do you want to go through with the cure?”

“Maybe I do,” he said, “Maybe I don’t. Why do you ask?”

“I just want to know,” Sam said, “Is it really that difficult for you, living like that?”

“I may not remember who I was,” Adam said, “But this is not a life. Not by any measure.”

Sam swallowed. “I know,” he said, “I get it, but what happens when you get separated, and you die?” he asked, “You can’t have your own heaven, not according to what that angel said.”

“And what happens when I die, without getting separated?” he asked, “I continue like _this_ , exactly like this, but in heaven instead of on earth.”

“I suppose,” Sam said, “There isn’t much improvement either way -”

“That’s where you’re wrong.”

“How?”

“You said it yourself,” Adam said, “Well, not here. Not now. But you told her. And that angel, Micah, said it, too,” he said, “If we get separated, her soul might be damaged beyond repair.”

Sam’s shoulders perked up. “Yes, exactly!” Sam said, “So we agree on this.”

Adam frowned. “No,” he said, “Quite the opposite.”

“I’m sorry?”

“She stripped me of who I am,” Adam said, “She’s the reason I’m like _this._ If my afterlife is the price I pay to make her see,” he said, “To put her through what _she_ put me through, I’ll do it.”

Sam blinked, his heart thumping in his chest. “She’s your _sister,_ ” he said, “You were in the Cage _together._ Whatever you think she did,” he said, “It wasn’t her _fault._ ”

“You’re very selective about brotherhood, don’t you think?” Adam said, “I remember you telling her that what I am now is at least better than being in hell. Am I not your _brother_ the same way she’s my sister?”

Sam grimaced. “It’s not - I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, “I just - I was just trying to look out for her.” He leaned forward. “She knows you, even though she didn’t meet you before the Cage,” he said, “So you have to know her, too.”

“More than I would like to.”

“Vengeance is tempting,” Sam said, “I get it. But Lucifer’s gone, and he was the reason this all happened to _both of you_. And if it wasn’t for _her_ , we wouldn’t have been able to do that. So maybe she did you wrong. But it wasn’t her fault, and she’s been doing nothing but try to fix it the entire time.”

“She stole _everything from me!_ ” Adam said, “Everything. I have _nothing_ now. No memories. No family. No life I can look back to,” he said, “No afterlife. _Nothing._ I’m nothing but minimal consciousness,” he said, “Only there to maintain the energy she uses for her powers. Nothing more,” he said, “Nothing less.”

“Well,” Sam said, “Maybe you don’t remember meeting me. But I remember meeting you,” he said, “I remember you being a good person. I remember you sacrificing your body to Michael so you could have your mother back. You’re a _good person_ ,” Sam pressed, “And you can choose to do the right thing.”

“The right thing…” Adam trailed. “For you? For her?”

“The right thing,” Sam said, “For everyone. You’ll still live through her. Even after death -”

“I would rather have _nothing_ ,” Adam said, “Than stay in this limbo.”

“What if you die?”

“What?”

“What if we get her to use her powers,” Sam suggested, “Enough to use you up to the point of no return.”

Adam shook his head. “That’s not how this works,” he said, “She draws energy randomly. Sinclair was able to prove that, once.”

“What if I kill you?” Sam asked, “This is your dream, too. If you die here, you die in real life, right?”

Adam sighed. “Even if I let you,” he said, “This wouldn’t work. The definition of death in most cases is finding a way to let the soul out through the body. If I do die this way, both of our souls will die. Hypothetically.”

“How do you know this?”

“Sinclair was very,” he said, “Very thorough with his experiments.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Sam said, “But, please. Please reconsider this.”

“This is the only choice I get to make,” Adam said, “If your entitled self wouldn’t _mind,_ I will be doing it alone.”

“But -”

“ _Leave.”_

In a flash, Sam was out of the bunker and outside a hospital room. And not any room; the one he remembered from Michigan Medicine. He spent a few months in this particular room, before he was transferred to another one, with a roommate. But unlike the bunker, it wasn’t just him there. There was also some version of him, he could see from outside, curled up on the bed, clutching to the pillow.

Was that how he looked like?

He was about to walk away, figure out how to hop from his head to Y/N’s, when he heard her voice from inside the room. “Sam,” she breathed, “Please. Talk to me.”

No. _No._

“Please,” she said, “I can’t - you have to talk to me. I swear I’m real,” she said, “I swear, Sam.”

Sam’s hands grew cold.

“What happened to you?” she asked, “Dean wouldn’t tell me. You have to tell me, Sammy,” she said, “I can’t make it better if I don’t know what I _did._ ”

He couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled the door, and walked in. She jumped to her feet, eyes wide. He stuck his hands in his pockets. “How long have you known?”

She blinked. “So you’re -” She turned to the other him, then back to him again, “You’re Sam? The one from now?”

“I’m the one who took the African Dream Root,” he said, “I suppose he’s a memory of mine.”

She shook her head. “Not yours,” she said, “Mine.”

“What?”

“Christmas,” she said, “After the apocalypse. You relapsed. You saw me, and thought I was real,” she said, “Right?”

“That was really you?”

“It was really me,” she said, “Just after I died.”

“Wait,” he said, “You mean, this last time? _That’s_ where you woke up?”

“Yeah.”

“So you’ve known ever since.”

“Why did you lie to me, Sam?” she asked, “What did I do?”

“What?” he asked, “You didn’t do anything -”

“You were scared of me,” she noted, “You prayed for help. I did _something._ Or I’m going to do something, somehow. What was it?”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Sam.”

“It wasn’t,” he said, “After you fell into the Cage,” he said, “Cas tried to rescue you, but he couldn’t,” he explained, “His attempts damaged something, though, in the Cage itself. Weakened it somehow,” he said, “So, uh.”

“So?”

“Lucifer was angry,” Sam said, “Just after it happened.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I know. I remember.”

“Right,” he said, “Of course.”

“What did he do to you?”

Sam licked his lips. “This,” he said, “He’d get into my head. In my dreams, at first,” he said, “Then all day, every day,” he said, “He wouldn’t let me sleep. He wouldn’t let me live. He’d just - he’d show up,” he said, “With you, or _as you_ , until I couldn’t take it anymore. I collapsed. Hard.”

“And then what?”

“And then Cas got around to fixing it,” Sam said, “And that’s it.”

She frowned. “Doesn’t sound right,” she said, “There was this angel that showed up when you prayed, that day,” she said, “She reassured you that the Cage was ‘secure’. But you were still there.”

He shifted on his feet. “It’s not - It wasn’t a spell we could undo.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why does it matter?” Sam asked, “It’s been years. It’s over. Why are you bringing it up?”

“I’m _worried_ about you!”

“Don’t be,” he said, “Like I said, it’s over. I’m a lot better now. We should focus on the reason we’re here, alright? I -”

“No,” she said, “No, Sam,” she repeated, “You’re not okay. If you were, you wouldn’t be this pale,” she said, “You wouldn’t lie to me. You wouldn’t tell Dean to lie to me.”

He shook his head. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?” she asked, “Why did you lie?”

“Because you’re _just_ like Dean,” he said, “It would just weigh you down. I knew it would.”

“Why would it?”

“Because,” Sam said, “It was you. In my dreams. In my hallucinations.”

“Lucifer as me, you mean.”

“Sometimes,” Sam admitted, “But most of the time, he just showed me.”

“Showed you?”

“What he did to you,” he said, “For months, I saw _years_ of him torturing you,” he said, “Telling me how it should’ve been me, how it would’ve turned out differently if I’d just said _yes -_ I saw you,” he said, “And it broke me.”

“Sam -”

“Even after Cas fixed it,” he said, “It was too late. I’d close my eyes, and you’d be there. I was aware how you were in hell the entire time,” he said, “How I could’ve saved you, but didn’t.”

“ _Sam -”_

“If I’d said yes,” he said, “Even after you did, he would’ve chosen me,” he said, “I’m his true vessel. I could’ve saved you. But I didn’t.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” she breathed, “It couldn’t have been, no matter what you think. I’m sorry - I’m sorry he did this to you,” she said, “I’m sorry I hurt you that way. I’m so, so sorry.”

He shook his head. “You don’t understand. That’s not all.”

“What else is there?”

“A year or so ago,” he said, “I saw it again. I saw you, down there. I didn’t think it could be Lucifer again,” he said, “It wasn’t the same, it was more like a message, I thought. I thought it was from God. I thought I was supposed to go in there, to find a solution for the thing with the Darkness.”

“But you didn’t. I would’ve noticed.”

“I didn’t. I couldn’t,” he said, “But when I met Lucifer -”

“Wait -”

“He got out.”

“Wow,” she said, “Well. I knew it was somehow connected to you guys. I just didn’t know how,” she said, “Can’t say I was too broken up about him disappearing.”

“But if I didn’t,” Sam said, “He wouldn’t have been after you.”

She shrugged. “And I wouldn’t have found a cure,” she said, “And you wouldn’t have been able to kill him, once and for all. It wasn’t all bad.”

“I guess.”

“I just want to tell you one thing.”

“What?”

“It’s not on you to save me,” she said, “It’s just not. It’s not on you to correct my choices for me. It’s on me. Always.”

“I get where you’re coming from,” Sam said, “But it doesn’t change my mind.”

“I know.” She looked down at her feet. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“I ruined your life,” she said, “I know it was Lucifer. I still blame him. But, still. I didn’t help. If I’d known, I would’ve - I would’ve tried harder, down there. To stay strong. But I gave in too quickly,” she said, “Too much. And you saw it. And it did this to you. So. I’m sorry, okay? Just. Just let me say I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

\--

You didn’t know what to do with what Sam told you.

But it felt like every step you took in that hospital was heavy. That you needed a moment to think, to process, but didn’t have any. You wished you could go back and get Lucifer back just to kill him again because maybe, by some twisted logic, you deserved what you got, but Sam didn’t. Not on any level. It was the reason why you chose to say yes to Lucifer in the first place; Sam was too good for this, for any of this.

But even he couldn’t escape.

“Listen,” Sam said, “I don’t know how much time we have left, so you have to focus. This is _your dream._ You can get to Adam if you want to.”

“It’s not as easy as it sounds,” you said, “Whenever I try to even get out of here, we keep bouncing back.”

“We do?”

“Yeah,” you said, “Couldn’t you feel it? Look.”

You tried again, and your perspective shifted again, like when you were little, and you caught a cold, and couldn’t stand straight for the life of you. But you couldn’t get out of the damn hospital. Sam scrunched his face. “Didn’t feel anything.”

You raised your hands - _I give up._ Sam grimaced, but led the way. He pushed through doors, even those that were supposed to be locked, and walked you through most of the place but Adam was nowhere, and he wasn’t answering you, either.

“Maybe we should split up.”

“Okay?”

“I have some control,” Sam said, “Because of the dream root. And you have some, because this is your dream,” he said, “So if we split our efforts, maybe we can get this done.”

“What if he kicks you out again?”

“Then I’ll keep us here,” Sam said, “As long as it takes. If Dean shows up to pull us out,” he said, “I’ll tell him. We’re not leaving until this is settled.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, “Go.”

So he nodded, and zapped out, like it was nothing.

Great. Okay. So it was just you who was stuck here, for some reason. The only person who talked to you here, though, was that Cohen dude. Maybe he could help you. Maybe your mind was trying to tell you something and you were too dumb to notice it.

“Hey Cohen.”

“Oh there you are again,” Cohen said, “You see Sam?”

“Yeah.”

“Then we’re ready for the next visit!”

“Wait,” you scurried behind him, “What visit? Is it Adam?”

He looked at the notebook in his hand. “Well,” he said, “The names are a bit blurry, but I know where everyone is.”

“Names?” you asked, “More than one?”

“Oh yes,” he said, “We have a few dozen, I think. Maybe more.” He stopped in front of a room and pushed the door in. “Here’s the first on the list.”

Lying on the bed, slashed and torn, was _her._

A lot had happened since then, but you could never forget _her._ The demon who possessed you for a year. The one you killed as soon as you could. Her eyes opened and found yours. But instead of the rage, of the smugness, of anything she did, she looked...scared. She held onto her wounds, and moved away on the mattress, as much as she could with her wounds. “No,” she said, “No!”

“Cohen,” you said, “What’s going on?”

“Let’s see,” Cohen said, pulling her chart from the edge of her bed, “A few cuts, bruises,” he said, “Oh, yeah, and more than a few stabs. A couple of gunshots, too.”

“That’s not the demon, is it?”

“Nope,” he said, “That’s the meatsuit.” He put the chart down. “Of course, it was the asphyxiation that got her eventually.”

You knew her as the demon.

But it didn’t help. She was dehumanized then, when she was taunting you. When she was bringing up old wounds. When she was challenging you to try and kill her, see how that goes. But she wasn’t now. Her breaths, her movements, her fear were too present, too real.

Like those people, with the Brits.

“Is that it?” you asked Cohen, “Can we go now?”

“No, no, no,” Cohen said, “We still got quite a few to go.”

“Are they all -” You closed your eyes. “Are they all meatsuits?”

“Some,” he said, “ _Most_ , I think. There also monsters,” he said, “That you could’ve healed, or saved, or spared,” he said, “But didn’t. There’s also Dean.”

“Dean.”

“But he’s the last stop.”

“So, what is this?” you asked, “Why are you showing me all of this? Why can’t I leave?”

Cohen raised his shoulders. “No idea,” he said, “But if you want, we can go to the garden, outside. The weather’s really nice,” he said, “And we could see everyone.”

“Fine. Whatever. Let’s go.”

You shouldn’t have.

Because the moment you stepped out, you saw. You recognized most of them. You remembered the faces of the meatsuits, of the people, but you never thought of them as independent of the demons that possessed them. You didn’t _want to._ You tried your hardest not to. But here they were. Easily the population of a small town, if not more. All scared. All staring at you. All wounded, torn, some even blue in the face. Some of them old, some of them barely even kids.

But it didn’t matter to you then, did it?

You liked to pick and choose. To think of your addicted self as a separate being. To think that you could somehow still claim the same morals, the same principles you held before this all happened. Before the demon blood. Before the choices. Before the violence, the _evil_ , that you projected onto this world. You liked to separate your actions from yourself.

But maybe you shouldn’t have.

Because you single handedly destroyed the lives of all of those people. Every single one of those had a life that was taken away by a demon. A demon you could’ve exorcised easily, but didn’t. No. You opted for their blood. You opted for their deaths after you’d had your share. You chose yourself over every single one of those people.

And you really, really shouldn’t have.

You knew it was bad. You felt it in your soul. It weighed you down. But not enough. Not nearly enough. You were worse than most of the monsters you killed. And maybe before the apocalypse, maybe before, you would’ve given in. Maybe you would’ve said that you deserved hell, that you should go there, to purify yourself, to become _better._

But, even when you saw all of them, you didn’t _want to._

You didn’t want to be in pain. You didn’t want to suffer again. And maybe it made you a terrible person, but you already _were._ You acknowledged that. You knew it. You just - you didn’t know what to do with it. Maybe you could fix it for them somehow. Maybe you could -

“There is no _fixing_. Don’t you get it? There is no fix!”

Adam.

“Did you do this?”

“You helped,” Adam said.

“It’s too little,” you said, “Too late. I know I’m beyond saving,” you said, “But I’m not willing to suffer for it again. I’m not willing to throw myself under the bus just out of guilt. Not if it can’t help anyone. If it’s just for the pain. No.”

“Who said it can’t help anyone?”

“What?”

“When you said yes to Lucifer,” Adam said, “You did it because you felt this weight, this regret, right?”

“Maybe.”

“And yet,” he said, “It didn’t take a lot for you to do the same to _me._ ”

You flinched.

“So what makes you think that a third chance, or a fourth, or a fifth,” he said, “Would make it better?”

“So you’re saying -”

“I’m saying,” he said, “Everyone is better off without you.”

“Maybe.”

“It’s true.”

“Even if it is,” you said, “What do you want me to do about it? Kill myself? And, what?” you said, “Even with zero regard for myself, Sam and Dean would just…”

“No,” Adam said, “That’s too easy. Too fast.”

“Then what?”

“Do the spells. Attempt the cure.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” he said, “No matter what it does.” He paused. “I know you considered Micah’s offer. I know you think it’s safer.”

“What if it hurts _you_?” you asked, “That’s part of the reason why I came to ask. What if it hurts you, instead of me? What if something unexpected happens to you?”

“You already took everything from me,” he said, “It doesn’t get any worse than this.”

You took a deep breath. “It just,” you said, “It doesn’t sound like you.”

“Well,” he said, “I wouldn’t know, would I?”

You tried to look away, but looking away meant coming face to face with every single face in the crowd. Every stare. Every tear. And you couldn’t. Not anymore. Not without breaking. So you just shut your eyes, and you willed every cell in you to wake up.

\--

“How long has it been?”

“A little less than an hour,” Dean said, looking at his watch. “So?” he asked, “What’s the verdict?”

“We’ll do it.”

Sam couldn’t stay, you guessed. He just up and left. Dean sighed. “I guess you mean the cure.”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?” Cas asked.

“I’m sure,” you said, “Let’s get it over with.”


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

“Has this been here since Dean killed him?”

“Probably.”

You grabbed a piece of cloth from one of Sinclair’s cupboards and covered his face with it. The entire place was guarded by spells that kept it stuck in time. “Fresh,” Sinclair called it. That meant he didn’t age, and all the ingredients and weapons in there stayed new. That also meant that his body didn’t decompose even after years of being dead. _Guess that was one scenario he didn’t anticipate._

“Do you know where that zoo they mentioned might be?”

You rested your good hand on your waist. “I dunno,” you said, “He could’ve built an extension, or stuck them in the basement, or something like that. What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking,” Cas said, “Since we’re already here, we might want to go through the prisoners he kept. Maybe he has some innocent people in there we don’t know about.”

You pulled one of the drawers, the one you knew he kept his keys in. “It just seems so weird,” you said, grabbing the chain that had the key to the storage, “I didn’t think he was the type.”

“People are often not what they seem.”

“I suppose.” You rested the chain in your palm and watched as it glew and revealed the Symbol of the Day, Sinclair’s way of maintaining some sort of security with his locks. You hung the keys from one finger and used the rest to get your switchblade out. “Hey, you mind? Can’t really cut myself with one hand.”

“I can do it,” Cas volunteered, “Since I can’t heal you all the way.”

“It’s just a scratch, doesn’t have to be too deep,” you said, “Besides, your blood wouldn’t work. He has mine hardcoded into the spell.”

Cas didn’t seem too happy about it, but he took the blade and pressed it as softly as he could while still drawing blood to your palm. “Is that the symbol you want to draw?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“Any wall would work.”

He dabbed his finger into the blood and started drawing with impressive accuracy. The wall lit and a door manifested. He twisted the knob and led you inside. It was just as you remembered, only with more bottles and boxes. If he hadn’t changed the system over the years, the ingredients should be arranged alphabetically first, then by origin continent, then by the amount available. And all the ingredients, except the blood and the feather of a reaper, should be there, according to Henry’s report.

“There is so much unnecessary warding in this house.”

“Dude was paranoid,” you said, “But he was good at what he did.”

Cas looked back over his shoulder, at Sinclair’s dead body. “Too good, apparently.”

You unzipped your duffel and started throwing in ingredients you needed for the spells. And others that weren’t so easy to come by. Hey, the guy was dead. This was just going to go to waste. “Thanks for doing this with me, by the way,” you said, “I know you’d rather be with Dean and Sam.”

“That’s not necessarily true.”

“Come on.”

“What?”

“They’re your friends,” you said, “Your family. I’m just…”

“Just…”

“Nothing,” you said, “Nevermind.”

“I do mind,” he said, “What is it?”

“It’s just,” you said, “It’s nothing, man. This whole thing is just getting to me, that’s all.”

He hummed. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“What happened, in your dream?” he asked, “Why did you decide to go for the cure after all?”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “Like you weren’t listening in the entire time.”

He frowned. “No,” he said, “You asked me to stop reading your mind, and I have.”

“Wow,” you breathed, “Okay. Nothing happened. I talked to Adam. He told me he wanted the cure. So that’s what we’re doing.”

“That was his vote,” Cas said, “But what about yours?”

“Mine?”

“This is your soul, too.”

You shook your head. “He’s the one who’s stuck in there,” you said, “He gets all the votes.”

“That’s not very democratic.”

“It’s not a democracy,” you said, “I said I’m doing whatever he thinks is right, and that’s what I’m doing.”

“Sam is devastated.”

“I don’t know why,” you admitted, “I mean, I get it. I know what happened to him. I know it’s a sore spot for him,” you said, “But no matter what happens, it’s not his fault.”

“I think he disagrees.”

“But he’s still helping, with the reaper feather thing,” you said, “So he can’t be that opposed to it.”

“Sam’s helping,” Cas said, “Because he is Sam, it’s what he does. It’s the right thing to do. He doesn’t necessarily have to agree with what you’re doing to help you.”

You grimaced.

“But I bet he’s looking for another solution as we speak,” he said, “Maybe another deal, or something of the like.”

You stopped cold. “Dean wouldn’t let him, would he?”

“I hope he doesn’t,” Cas said, “But in most cases that means Dean would be the one making the deal on his behalf.”

“Son of a bitch,” you breathed, “Did those idiots learn _nothing_ those past seven years?”

Cas’ smile was faint, but there. “Hardly,” he said, “But they’re trying.”

“We have to go back,” you said, “Right now. I have to talk to Sam -”

“There’s no need.”

“But you just said -”

“I anticipated this,” Cas said, “I talked to Crowley. And to Micah. And Billie, the reaper,” he said, “No one’s going to deal, if they know what’s good for them.”

“Good, so -”

“So you have to be absolutely certain this is what you want to _do_ ,” Cas said, “Because if you’re not, if you have even a shadow of doubt, and something goes wrong, it will haunt them forever,” he said, “And I’m not sure I would be able to fix that.”

The scene in your head, of all those people, of Adam, of Sam, was as clear and as present as it was in your dream. You threw the duffel over your good shoulder. “I’m sure,” you said, “It’s the right thing to do. For Adam.”

“And you?”

“I’m not -” You sighed. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I’ve lost the privilege of getting to consider that a long time ago.”

“If you’re not going to put your own well-being into consideration,” Cas said, “Then who is?”

“No one,” you said, “No one will, and no one _should._ ”

“I know for a fact guilt is not genetic,” he said, “But you make me question my own knowledge.”

“What?”

“You feel guilty,” he said, “Because of what you did, because of what you caused.”

“So?”

“So you fail to consider the lives you’ve actually saved,” he said, “The lives you’ve improved. Somehow, in your head, that doesn’t count.”

“I know I’ve saved people,” you said, “When I hunted. But I ruined the lives of so many more. It’s not comparable.”

“You stopped the _apocalypse._ ”

“No,” you said, “I didn’t. Sam and Dean did all the heavy lifting while I took a break with an archangel in Greece. I just showed up at the end to spare Sam,” you said, “But even that didn’t work. He still suffered, for both of us, for so long.”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“Maybe,” you said, “But I was still a factor. But Adam,” you said, “Adam didn’t do _anything._ He was just stuck in a bad situation that just kept getting _worse,_ and now I’m basically _possessing him_.”

“You are not.”

“I am where it matters,” you said, “I stayed for too long, Cas. I should’ve died or retired a long, long time ago. I’ve turned into everything I hated, everything I hunted,” you said, “Mom’s proof of that. So, no. I don’t get any votes. Adam says we’re doing the cure, so we’re doing the cure.”

“I understand,” Cas said, walking out of the room, “During the war, and after it, I’ve done things I regret. Catastrophic things. I was one of the main reasons why my entire kind fell.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes,” Cas said, “I think what makes it worse is not what happened,” he added, “But that I had a multitude of choices, and chose this. And when I think about it,” he said, “When I ask myself if I’d do the exact same thing if I had another chance,” he said, “In most cases, that answer would be yes.”

“But I heard what that other angel told you - what’s-his-name - Micah,” you said, “You’re always fighting for some sort of cause.”

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” he said, “Things tend to fall apart fast, and seemingly in a way that is out of our control.”

“So, what?” you said, “You’re saying I shouldn’t listen to Adam? Just keep it on the safe side, take Micah’s offer?”

He shook his head. “I would be a hypocrite if I did,” he said, “I think it’s good, what you’re trying to do. I think it’s a good call.”

“Tell that to Sam.”

“Sam’s afraid,” he said, “For you. For himself. I can’t blame him.”

“Neither can I,” you said, “I just wish - if - when something goes wrong,” you said, “I wish I could make it better for him, somehow.”

“There’s nothing you can do in that regard.”

“Can you, though?”

“Can I what?”

“Can you make him forget?” you asked, “Make _them_ forget? That’s what you did for Lisa and Ben, right?”

“You want them to forget what happened to you?”

“I want them to forget _me_ ,” you said, “If I don’t come back the same. If I don’t come back at all. Just. Just make me disappear. And make them forget me.”

“ _No._ ”

“Why _not?”_ you asked, “They’re better off! Mom, too!”

“I thought you said your mother died in 1983.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose to keep the tears that started to form inside. “I don’t know,” you said, “I don’t know.”

“What Dean did,” Cas said, “What he asked me to do to Lisa and Ben, it was _unfair._ To him, to them,” he said, “He lost part of him that day, and they were a part of his life for a _year._ You’ve been there for most of his life, in some way or another. You’ve been there the entirety of Sam’s life. How do you expect me to just take that away from them?” he asked, “From you?”

You put your bag down.

“And that’s not even taking into account the amount of people, of government records, of everything that I would have to alter or erase in some form or the other in order to make sure their memory doesn’t start coming back, or drive them insane.”

“But I’m _tired!”_ you said, “I’m tired of hurting everyone I love. I’m tired of disappointing them every single day,” you said, “I’m tired of this whole _life_ and I want to fix it, I do,” you said, “But it’s too late. There’s no fixing it. Adam was right. And I just. I just want it all to stop. Even the idea of heaven is _exhausting_ ,” you said, “I just want it all to be over, once and for all.

“And even if I die, if I somehow manage to cease to exist, they’d still remember,” you said, “And everyone whose life I ruined will still _remember_ , be they here, or in heaven, or in hell. I can’t take it back. I can’t make it _stop_.”

“I understand you’re in a lot of pain,” Cas said, “But perhaps we could approach this differently. In a more traditional sense. Sam suggested this once, I think.”

“How?”

“Maybe,” he said, “You could seek counseling. Humans have made impressive advances in this field. Maybe some professional help wouldn’t hurt.”

“And what would I say, huh?” you asked, “I killed demons and sucked their blood? The devil made me his plaything? What? If I say the truth,” you said, “They’ll misdiagnose it. If I _don’t_ ,” you said, “Then I’m not making anything better.”

“Then we find someone who understands,” Cas said, “Billions of people alive, and you think not one psychiatrist is well versed in the world you live in?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re right,” he said, “You don’t. So let me ask you again,” he said, “Are you sure this is what you want to do? Are you sure this is a risk you want to take?”

“Yes,” you breathed, “Yes, I’m sure.”

He sighed. “Then we do it. And we’ll deal with whatever consequences that follow. Together.”

\--

“We finally meet.”

The lady with the surprisingly well-fitted brown leather jacket and impressive makeup crossed her arms over her chest, and you _err_ ed for a moment before Dean explained. “Y/N,” he said, “This is Billie. She’s the reaper helping us out.”

Cas extended his hand beside you, but Billie ignored him. Sam walked around her and Dean to stand next to you, in the bunker’s war room, his face calm, rested. Weird. Okay. “Hi, Billie,” you said, “Thank you for doing this. But you, uh,” you said, “You don’t have to be here.” You looked at Sam. “Right?”

“Oh I know,” Billie said, “I want to be here.”

“For Adam?”

She shrugged. “Not every day you see something like this happening,” she said, “And to a Winchester, nonetheless.”

“She’s not the only one here,” Dean said.

“Who -”

It was then that she walked out, like she’d been waiting for her introduction, or something. She had a gun in her hand, but kept her forefinger on the side, and her arms crossed in front of her. Her face was blank, unwavering, like this wasn’t a hundred types of fucked up.

“Hi, Mom.”

She frowned, the slightest bit, but said nothing. Dean cleared his throat. “We briefed her,” he said, “She’ll be helping, too.”

“And we have the rest of the ingredients,” you said, “So. We’re ready.”

“Looks like it,” Sam said, “But, uh, Dean and I want a word with you first.”

“Okay.”

“And we got dinner.”

“Dean.”

“I don’t want it to get cold, okay?” Dean defended, ushering you into the hallway, far enough to be out of regular hearing range. “Hey.”

You tucked your hair behind your ear.

“We have something we want to tell you,” Sam said.

Dean rolled his eyes. You licked your lips. “Look, if you’re here to talk me out of it -”

“We’re not,” Sam said, grimacing. “Look. I don’t like this. It doesn’t feel right. But,” he said, “It’s what you want to do, so I’m here for you.”

“What?”

“I promised you,” he said, “When you came back, that I’d be here for you, no matter what,” he said, “This is the _no matter what_ part, I guess.”

“And you?”

Dean shrugged. “I’m all for it,” he said, “Let’s kick its ass once and for all.”

“So what did you wanna tell me?”

“We’re not making any promises.”

“What?”

“We’re not making any promises,” Dean said, “Whatever happens, we deal with it as it happens.”

“What do you mean?”

“We mean,” Sam said, “If it fails, we don’t have to try again. If something happens to you,” he said, “We just - we’re not promising anything.”

“What if -”

“No,” Sam insisted, “Nothing.”

Dean sighed. “Do you trust us?”

“...you’re not making it very easy right now.”

“Do you _trust us?_ ”

“Yes,” you said, “I do.”

“Then you let us handle whatever happens,” Dean said, “Whatever way we think is best.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, “I trust you.”

Sam nodded. “Good,” he said, “Now, before we do this…”

“I’m sure.”

“Yeah?”

“I am,” you said, “By the way, did you know Sinclair has an actual live unicorn in his zoo?”

Dean looked like he was being restarted. “I’m sorry,” he said, “ _What?”_

“Cas and I went into the zoo,” you said, “To see if there are any people that could be saved, and we found an actual unicorn.”

Dean’s eyebrows stuck to his hairline. Sam was just blinking, like he was trying to process. “Rainbows?”

“I dunno,” you said, “Vicious snarl though.”

“Wow,” he said, “This day keeps getting weirder by the second.”

“Did something else happen?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “Remember how we hid Gabriel’s blade in the most secure box we have here? Yeah. It’s gone.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, “Disappeared. Box wasn’t even opened.”

“You think he’s…”

“I dunno,” Sam said, “But, like I said, weird day.”

\--

Maybe the dungeon was a weird choice.

But it was the most heavily warded place, in case anything none of you anticipated happened. Cas was responsible for mixing the ingredients for both spells. They were supposed to be cast right after each other, so your hybrid soul didn’t have time to resist. Dean stood next to Billie, on your right, while Sam took the blood from Mary and handed it over to the angel.

You just sat there for a good ten minutes.

“Billie,” Sam said, “Stop us if anything looks fishy to you, will you?”

“No.”

Sam sighed, but focused his attention back to Cas. When they were done, Dean kneeled in front of you, and flipped the small, thin blade between his fingers. “You ready?”

“Wish I could do this myself.”

He unbuckled the braces on your shoulder. “So do I.” He paused. “We could wait until your arm heals.”

“No,” you said, “I’m ready now.”

He grimaced. “Alright,” he said, “Sorry.”

He pulled the collar of your t-shirt down and started carving the Enochian symbol right in the center, a couple of inches beneath your throat, in the center of the marks left by that device they wanted to use to extract your soul. It barely stung, the blade was that sharp, but you still had to look away. When he was done, he pressed a piece of cotton to it, cleaned up the blood.

“Okay,” he said, “We’re ready here.”

“Just a moment,” Cas said, “Sam, we still need a few drops of your blood.”

You forced a smile. “You know,” you said, “If Sam and I don’t have the same dad, now’s the time for a dramatic reveal.”

No one laughed.

“Tough crowd.”

Dean took the bowl from his brother and held it up. “Last chance to back out.”

You shook your head. And it started.

First, Dean rubbed the paste they mixed together directly on the symbol he’d carved and took a step back, chanting the incantation. You didn’t think it did anything at first, but then it hit all at once. Your entire body was on fire, burning, fighting, _splitting -_

Fuck, fuck, _fuck._

It hurt more than the time Castiel tried to touch your soul. It burned, and it stung, and it tore at every cell in you in a way you didn’t think was possible. You heard your screams, but you weren’t aware you were screaming otherwise. You wanted to make it stop, to make it better, but your neck was strained, stuck, so you had to focus on the ceiling, which was fading from your vision by the second.

And then it settled.

It went from white, hot pain to a dull rhythm, and you could finally breathe. You thought the first part was over then, that it was time for step two, but no. Before Dean, or Sam, or anyone else, could do anything, it hit again and this time, you couldn’t stay on the chair. This time you fell to the floor, and Dean tried to help you up, but he ended up getting burned, from the looks of it, and they all took an extra step back while you twitched, and screamed, and called, and _writhed._

And then it stopped. It all just stopped.

But so did the scene in front of you. You weren’t in there anymore, in that place you were in - what was it, again? You remembered black, and people, and - it didn’t matter. Wherever you were, you weren’t there anymore. It felt like you were floating, in some dark place. Like your senses were dulled. There was a voice, though, from far away, that kept calling for you, but it felt like you were underwater.

“I can feel it,” another voice said, “It’s working.”

And then you were snatched away.

You were on a chair, and the voice that was calling earlier was chanting something else, and it all went crazy one more time. But this time it wasn’t hot. This time, you weren’t on fire. This time it _tore._ This time you felt it, like you’d feel muscle cramps. It didn’t hurt as much, but it still did, and your _head -_ God, your head weighed a ton and you just wanted to touch it, to make it stop thumping, but you couldn’t get your hands to move, to do anything at all.

In a flash, you were back, floating.

But this time, you saw something. You saw people, and it was like you were flying above them, for some reason. You saw them gather in a living room, two boys and a girl, along with a man with a baseball cap and a beard, all watching television. The kids were falling asleep by the second, and you saw the man drape covers over them, like they were the most precious thing in the world. The girl opened an eye, but closed it right when he hovered over her, and pressed his lips to her forehead.

The tearing started to fade in the background.

Then it was this same girl, with another girl that looked about her age, or maybe younger. They wore matching dresses, and the first girl was teaching her friend how to hotwire a car. Someone approached them, you could see, but they were quick enough. They hid in the backseat of the car, giggling, but the adult that was looking for them wasn’t fooled. He found them, and dragged them by their dresses back to the building they came from. They didn’t stop giggling.

The tearing stopped, you thought.

And then it was a teenager, blood all over her clothes, sneaking into a motel room late at night. Another teenager that looked a lot like her was waiting, a shotgun in his hand, unamused. But then she gave him something - some food - and he visibly softened. He still hit her on the back of the head, but they were both grinning. They sat on the couch, and started eating.

It was awfully quiet where you were.

The last thing you saw was red. Bright red, hot flames, in what resembled a cage. A woman stood there, strung by her hands, feet, and eyelids, screaming, begging, while a man circled her, grinning, saying something you couldn’t quite make out. Her eyes welled with tears, but they’d only roll down when they were too much. Her chest was heaving, her muscles burning, and being reconstructed again in the same second, while the man taunted her like a snake.

It faded, like the tearing. The images all faded into darkness, and you felt yourself breathe.

“Open your eyes.”

You hadn’t realized your eyes were closed, so you tried to open them, and all the bright light blinded you for a second. You groaned, and stuck your arm in front of your eyes. You were sweaty, you noticed, and cold. Someone threw a soft, warm blanket over your shoulder.

“Cas? Can you heal her now?”

Fingers were pressed to your forehead and you felt warmth surge through your body. Your sweat dried as well, and you heard something break. Your other arm felt sore, but good, and the cool air hitting it felt like a nice surprise.

“I think it worked. She healed very easily.”

“Thank _fuck_. Hey. Hey, it’s okay. Do you want us to dim the lights? Is it too much?”

You nodded.

You heard a click. “Okay. I need you to open your eyes now, okay? Just for a second, and then we can get you to your room, and you can sleep this off, alright?”

You opened your mouth to speak, but your throat was too dry, too scratchy. So you just nodded again, and took your arm down. You opened your eyes, and it was almost completely dark but for a lamp on the side. Everyone was watching you intently, like you might explode at any given moment, you noticed, and you were sitting on the floor, your back to the wall.

“It’s over. It’s done. How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay.”

“You sure? Nothing feels weird?”

You weren’t sure. It was still a little too much.

“Okay. Do you know what just happened?”

“Fire,” you said, “I felt -” You cleared your throat. “Fire. And then it was dark. And I saw people.”

He frowned. “Uh. Um. Okay. Wait. Do you know what day it is?”

Your lips parted, but it didn’t seem to work. Nothing seemed to come out.

“Do you need a minute? Want Sam to get you something?”

You frowned. “Sam?”

He blinked. Licked his lips. Looked like he was about to pass out. “I need you to focus for a second, okay? Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me your name?”

“Y/N.”

“Okay,” he said, “And what’s _my_ name?”

“Your name?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know,” you said, “I don’t know you. I don’t know any of you.”

“Cas.”

“On it.” Trench Coat kneeled in front of you, next to _him_ , and pressed two fingers to your forehead. It was warm again, for a second, and then it wasn’t, once he pulled his fingers away. “Dean.”

“What?” he asked, “What is it?”

“I think,” _Cas_ said, “I think I should speak with you and Sam in private.”


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

Sam wasn’t an optimist.

Dean would accuse him of that sometimes, when he was the only one with any hope for a good outcome of whatever it was they were doing. But it wasn’t optimism, not really. He liked the idea of hope, of striving for _better_ , but he didn’t expect it. He knew better than to expect it by now; the years have hammered that into him, more than he’d like to admit. He knew when it was hopeless, when it was just checking off a box because they had to check it off.

But this one time, more than any other, he wished to whatever God was listening he was wrong.

He’d had a bad feeling about this, ever since Henry warned of the possible side effects in a report both he and _Sinclair_ wrote. His gut sank even deeper when he knew Sinclair had altered the spell, and yet left that warning in anyway. When the collector that, at one point, wanted to keep Dean locked up next to the First Blade, couldn’t get this on his conscious. When the angel of _miracles_ descended from _heaven_ to offer a _Winchester_ another alternative, just in case she felt like it was her only option. When Adam, hurt and out for vengeance, insisted she’d do it. When she, tear-stricken, rose from her dream to a solid _yes._

He knew then.

But he also knew that even if he’d managed to convince her for now, that it would never go away. That it would loom over their heads. That she’d leave someday, and Adam would get to her, or her own guilt would, and she’d do it. All on her own. Without anyone to watch out for her. And if there was one thing he loathed more than the idea of whatever consequences of the spell catching up to her, it was forcing her, against her will, to undergo the alternative. So he made a deal. With Dean, with her.

No promises. No guarantees.

Because he was _damned_ if he was going to let her down again. If he was going to watch her throw herself away again. Billie wasn’t there to _watch_. Billie was there to interfere, if necessary. Billie was there because he _asked her to_ , even after she told him Castiel was very specific about not wanting him or his brother to deal. Billie was there because the next time he died, she got his word that it would be permanent. That she could make it permanent, whatever means necessary.

He _got this._

He knew, before Cas spoke. He knew she’d lost her memory, the same way Adam did. She remembered her name, like he did. She could speak, she could walk, she recognized the brand of beer Dean handed her, she didn’t feel like she had to be on the defensive around them, but consciously, she had no idea who they were. And, he was sure, if they asked, if they pushed, she wouldn’t know who she was, either. Where she came from. Where she was.

He got this. Or he thought he did.

Because he thought it was recoverable. He’d seen Cas alter people’s memories, dig into them, see everything they were made of. He’d seen angels manipulate people through their thoughts, their pasts. He’d seen reapers use it. He’d seen heavens built around it. Memories were _easy_. Cas said that’s all she lost. That she didn’t lose the core of her soul, that, upon double checking, with a touch, she kept that intact, _and_ she lost Lucifer’s claim.

_But._

“I can’t help this time, Sam, I’m sorry,” Cas said, “When angels alter someone’s memory, they reveal or conceal parts of their soul. Sometimes they can write onto it - I can, or I could, last I checked,” he said, “But the only reason angels can do that is because memories are part of someone’s soul. They’re the very outer shell.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I’m trying to say that this very _shell_ wasn’t just concealed,” he said, “Not just damaged. It was burned straight off.”

Dean rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “So she’s missing a part of her soul. Great.”

“She’s not,” Cas reassured him, “She will recharge. She will gain that energy back. I can accelerate the process, but it will happen in a few weeks anyway.”

“Okay, I’m lost,” Dean said, “Is this or is this not permanent?”

“The damage to her soul is only temporary. Souls are more resilient than that,” he said, “But her memories, I’m afraid, are never coming back. No matter what I do.”

“What about Billie?”

“She can’t recover what’s not there, Sam.”

“Isn’t there - aren’t there some sort of logs?” Sam asked, “In some lore, some angels keep track of a person’s life - their sins, and their virtues, for judgement.”

“This does exist, to some extent,” Cas said, “But this part of where the souls end up. Reapers are the only ones with access to something like this and, before you say it, even _if_ Billie could access your sister’s _logs_ ,” he said, “Those are just accounts, as far as I know. It’s not an objective recording of a person’s life.”

Sam swallowed.

“Memories are complex,” Cas said, “They’re biased. They’re personal. No log could ever replicate that.”

Dean peeked outside, then shut the door to the bedroom they all stood in. “We can’t just leave her like this!”

“I agree,” Cas said, “People with amnesia might survive and recover without recovering their memories,” he said, “But this is not the case. People who go through something similar end up losing their minds, or worse.”

“ _Why?”_

“It’s the way souls are designed,” Cas said, “Her soul is considered old, in human terms,” he said, “Old enough for it not to be malleable. If it’s left blank, it will attempt to self destroy. Do you remember what we found, when we were reading about spells that tap into a person’s soul?” he asked, “What happens when they don’t leave a soul to recharge, and end up using up too much of it?”

“I thought they just died,” Dean said, “That’s what Henry made it sound like.”

“In a way,” Cas said, “They do.”

“So what do you suggest we do?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know, not for sure,” Cas said, “But, in any case, we need to wait a few weeks, until she recharges,” he said, “Otherwise, we’re digging in water.”

\--

**May 1983**

“Stay _still!”_

Dean grumbled, but held onto the wooden bars as you put one knee on his shoulder, and a foot on the other, holding onto the bars yourself. “Can you see anything?”

You clutched at the edge of the crib and angled your body over it. “He’s so _small._ ”

“He’s a baby,” Dean said, “They’re small, smartass.”

Someone chuckled in the background and Dean panicked for a split second. “Stay still for a second, okay? I can’t _focus.”_

“I hate you so much,” Dean whispered, “Just, tell me.”

“Okay,” you said, “So he’s kind of red.”

“ _Red?”_

“Yeah.”

“I’m not red,” he said, “And you’re not red.”

“Yeah, I know, _smartass.”_

“Okay,” he said, “What else?”

“I dunno,” you said, “His face is all…”

“All what?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” you said, “He doesn’t look like anyone.”

“But he has to look like someone,” Dean argued, “He _has to.”_

“Okay,” you said, “Maybe a little like you when you got all the pepper in your eyes.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Alright,” he said, “That’s it. I’m _leaving._ ”

“Wha-”

Before you could say anything, he’d pushed your feet off of his shoulders and left you hanging from the edge of the crib, legs frantically trying to hold onto something. That was when you heard footsteps come closer, and felt someone pick you up. “Hey, sweetie, what are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?”

You held onto your mom’s neck. “We just wanted to see the baby.”

“I didn’t see _anything_.”

Your mom turned you around so you could see your big brother being snatched by your dad on the other side of the room. “You couldn’t see through the bars?”

Dean huffed. “No!” he said, “There are so many blankets! It’s not even winter anymore!”

“Still a little cold for a baby,” your mom argued, “If you waited until the morning, we would’ve shown you, you know.”

“But you had him for _so long_ ,” Dean whined, “You were at that hospital _forever._ ”

“We wanted to know if he looks more like Dean,” you said, “Or like me. It’s important.”

Your dad grinned. “Oh yeah?” he said, “Why?”

“Because if he looks like me,” you said, “He’ll share my room with me. And if he looks like Dean,” you said, “He’ll share his room with him. Those are the rules.”

“You don’t have to worry about that, sweetie,” your mom said, “He has the nursery.”

“But that’s just his baby room,” Dean argued, “He’ll grow up!”

“And when he does,” your dad said, “We’ll turn that room into his room.”

Dean’s shoulders fell. “Oh.”

“Dean.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you _want_ to share your room with your little brother?”

He pouted. “Doesn’t matter,” he mumbled, “Let me down.”

“It’s true,” you said, “He wants to share with him because they’re both boys.”

“And what about you?” your dad asked, “Don’t you want to share with him, too?”

You shrugged. “If the baby shares with me,” you said, “Dean will come play with us all the time.”

“Dean,” your mom said, “Did you tell your sister you don’t want to play with her anymore?”

“What? No!”

“ _Dean.”_

“I swear I didn’t!” he said, “I never said that!”

“You said you hate me!”

“You said you hate me, too!” Dean defended, “And I only hate you sometimes! I love you all the rest of the time!”

“Wow,” your dad said, “Lots of things happened while we were away, huh?”

You rested your chin on your mom’s shoulder. “I love you all the rest of the time, too.”

“Now that _that’s_ settled,” your dad said, “Do you wanna know what we called your little brother?”

“What?”

“Samuel.”

“ _John.”_

“Alright, alright,” he said, “His name is Sam, but your mother insists we call him Sammy.”

\--

**Now**

“Hey, Sammy.”

“ _What?”_

“Geez,” Dean said, “Lighten up a little? We’re getting some pizza, you want some?”

“I won’t be home tonight either,” Sam said, over the phone, “You get everything ready?”

“As ready as it _can be_ , I think,” Dean said, “Billie won’t wait around for long, you know. She didn’t say it,” Dean said, “But I have a feeling this whole _offer_ won’t last for long.”

“Don’t worry,” Sam said, “It’ll last.”

“Just,” Dean said, “Get your ass over here, alright? This is weird enough as it is.”

“I’ll talk to you later, Dean.”

“Sam.”

“Gotta go.”

Dean grimaced, holding his phone to his forehead for a solid minute before deciding that _fuck it._ If Sam wanted to be like this, fine. But he didn’t get what was so bad about this whole thing that he needed to take some time off from the entire bunker for three weeks. Every day, he’d say he was coming back the next, and every day, he’d lie. If Dean wasn’t absolutely sure there wasn’t anything stupid he could be doing, he’d think he was making a deal, or something like that.

But no one would _deal._ Dean tried.

If not for anything, then just to get this air of weirdness out of the way. The bunker turned from their hunting quarters to some extended family vacation he never asked for. Mary was living there full-time now, along with a very clueless Y/N, and, as of yesterday, Jody, Claire, and Alex. Tomorrow? Claire fucking _Deacon._ Who was apparently an actual, legit FBI agent now. Cas was around, as weirded out as Dean was, but that was Cas’ usual mode, Dean thought.

It was just so crowded. Everyone was as tense as he was, he thought, but they still somehow made themselves at home. They had a movie night yesterday, for crying out loud, and it was starting to cross weird into right-out fucked up. He needed Sam to come back, now, or he was going to _lose it._

Someone knocked on his door. “Come in.”

Jody turned the knob and peeked inside. “Thought I’d find you here.”

“Is everything okay?”

She looked back behind her then sneaked inside, closing the door. “Define _okay._ ”

He snickered. “I dunno, to be honest,” he said, “It’s all just so…”

“It’s creepy _as fuck_.”

“Right?!”

“Claire told me,” Jody said, sitting next to him on the bed, “About what happened with your mom, how she was working with the Brits.”

“Yeah.”

“But now…”

“I know,” he said, “It’s like she never left, or died, or whatever,” he said, “It’s giving me flashbacks. And not the good kind.”

She rested a hand on his back. “You wanna talk about it?”

He smiled, rubbing his eyes. “No, I’m fine,” he said, “Just. Can’t wait until this is over.”

“She doesn’t seem to be in such a hurry.”

“Who, Mom?”

“No,” Jody said, “Your sister. She’s just rolling with all of this.”

“Cas said it was some sort of coping mechanism,” Dean said, “Some form of denial. She doesn’t want to think about it too much, so she’s working with what we told her.”

_Your last name is Winchester. I’m Dean. This is Sam. That’s Mary. You’ve been staying with us, but you had an accident. Don’t worry, though, it’ll come back to you._

“Are you sure we can help?” Jody asked, “I mean, it’s not like she remembers _you_ , or Sam.”

He shook his head. “It’s not like that,” he said, “Look. Cas can explain this better than me, but, long story short: we’re trying to sort of reconstruct her memory.”

Jody frowned. “Reconstruct her memory?”

“Yeah,” he said, “Just take what we remember of her, and make it seem like her own memory.”

Her frown deepened. “Would that work?”

“Billie - the reaper - said it should. That she could do it, better than Cas can.”

“No, I don’t mean the how,” Jody said, “But when I’m working with witnesses - so many people can see the same thing but it would _seem_ different to each of them.”

Dean sighed. “I know,” he said, “But it’s the only thing we’ve got right now.”

“She won’t be _her_ ,” Jody said, her voice soft, “Do you really want that?”

He reached out to his nightstand and poured himself a shot. “Better that,” he said, “Than dead. Or worse.”

“Does she know you’re doing this?”

He shook his head. “No,” he said, “She wouldn’t understand, anyway. She doesn’t know what we do.”

“So how do you know she’s okay with this?”

“I don’t,” he said, “But we talked about this. In case something like this happens,” he said, “We call the shots.”

She nodded. “Then we’re here for you, all of you,” she promised, “I’ve taken a few days off of work. Alex also has a week or so. And you know Claire.”

He scoffed. “Yeah. How’s she doing, by the way?”

“Claire?”

“Yeah.”

“As good as can be expected,” Jody said, “She didn’t say much about the specifics of what happened, but she’s been staying with us ever since. Not a hunt. Nothing.”

“I’m so sorry,” Dean said, “She shouldn’t have been so involved in all of this -”

“Don’t be,” Jody said, “I’m glad you were there to save her.”

“We got her into this whole mess.”

“Nobody gets Claire into anything,” Jody said, “But. Thanks.”

“Is she quitting for good?”

“I don’t think so,” she said, “But, whatever she decides to do, I’ll be there.”

He smiled. “Yeah,” he said, “You’re a good mom.”

She didn’t say anything, just ruffled his hair a bit, much to his dismay, and left him alone with his alcohol once again. He laid back on his headboard, staring down at the golden liquid. It was stupid, wasn’t it? He should be out there, with his sister. He should be doing _something_ , instead of just waiting around for Sam. Waiting for this to be over. But he couldn’t. Everything just felt so foreign, so cold, that he couldn’t bring himself to _participate._

It was one of those things that had to be done, no matter how cold he felt inside, no matter how much he just wanted to shut down and forget this whole thing was even happening.

Sam better have a pretty fucking _great_ reason why he wasn’t there right now.

\--

**December 1988**

You wished you could be anywhere but here right now.

But you didn’t have much of a choice, did you? Your dad brought you over, practically dragging you by the arm, to the Deacon’s house. His buddy from the Marines took you in, but not without questions. Questions you didn’t bother listening to. You just sat there, on the couch, while the daughter, Claire, kept eying you like you were some sort of an alien.

“Will you _stop?_ ”

Claire raised her eyebrows at you. “I didn’t do _anything._ ”

Claire’s mom sat down next to her daughter. “Claire,” she said, “This is Y/N Winchester. She’ll be staying with us for a while.”

“How long a while?”

You crossed your arms over your chest. “Probably forever.”

The mom frowned, shaking her head. “No, darling, not forever,” she said, “Just until things settle with your father.”

Claire sighed. “Does your dad move around a lot, too?”

“Claire.”

“Yeah,” you said, “We move around a lot.”

“We don’t,” Claire said, “Not anymore. Whenever Dad gets sent somewhere, he goes alone, and we wait here.”

“Good for you.”

“I’m sorry,” Claire said, “I don’t mean to sound mean. I’m just saying, we’re not going anywhere.”

“Doesn’t matter,” you said, sinking into the couch, “You got somewhere I could put my stuff?”

“You’ll be staying in the guest room,” Claire’s mom said, “But, is that everything you have?”

“I don’t need anything else.”

“But surely a beautiful girl like you has a lot of clothes,” she said, “Maybe books as well? Is there more in your dad’s car?”

You pulled your duffel towards your chest. “I don’t have a lot of stuff.”

“That’s okay,” Claire said, “You can share with me!”

You raised an eyebrow at her, eying her from head to toe. “I don’t think so, princess.”

“Are you always so grumpy?”

“Are you always so cheerful?”

“It _is_ my duty as princess, after all.”

The corner of your mouth hinted at a smile. “You’re _such_ a kid.”

“Oh, oh, oh, watch out for the adult over here!” Claire said, “She’s a _whopping_ seven years old!”

“ _Claire,_ ” her mother warned.

“I’m eight!” you protested, but she’d already won. You were already smiling.

“Good for _you_ ,” she said, mirroring your smile, “Now do you want me to show you where we hide the good candy, or not?”

\--

**Now**

“Gotta go.”

Billie tilted her head, ever-so-slightly, as Sam hung up on his brother. He switched off his phone and stuck it back in his pocket, before returning back to the Winchester books from the Men of Letters stash, now in their new home at Bobby’s. He had to make sure it was perfect. Had to make sure his plan worked. No interruptions. No _buts._ No _stop._ No _you have to think about the consequences._

He was used to taking long shots. This couldn’t be one of those long shots.

“You’ll start with Mom,” Sam said, “Just until she died.”

“Alright.”

“And then Dean,” he said, “But only until 2004.”

“You’re walking on dangerous grounds, Sam.”

“You said you’d do this my way,” Sam said, “So we’re _doing it_ my way.”

She crossed her arms. “Go on.”

Sam took a deep breath. “You’ll also get Claire Deacon, that’s her friend from when she was a kid - you can just get everything from her.”

“Generous.”

“Can we do this without the commentary?”

“Can you do this without me?”

He grimaced. “Fine. Then there’s Jody - from what she told me, she’s been around when she was with Bobby’s, so everything with Jody up until the apocalypse, I guess.”

“You get this will never be as neat as you want it to be, don’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said, “It will be an open portal. I can focus on one thing or the other: either get specific memories, or make them seem like _hers_ in a way that doesn’t feel inconsistent to her.”

“So we’ll tell them what to think of. Easy.”

“Is it?” Billie asked, “If I tell you not to think about something, what would you do? You don’t know what they know. If you did, you wouldn’t need them. So even if they try,” she said, “Even if they succeed, it will never be as clean as you want it to be.”

“That’s okay.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” he said, “Because Cas will fix it.”

“Oh?”

“After you’re done,” he said, “Cas’ll fill in the gaps.”

“With _your_ narrative?”

“What’s it to you?”

“It’s everything to me, Winchester,” she said, “You’re playing with fire. You’ve already tested Fate, and now…”

“You’re getting your end of the deal,” Sam said, “And if this works out the way I want it to, she won’t be messing with your _order_ , or whatever, any time soon.”

“Fine,” Billie said, “Say you patch together her memory and it works,” she said, “What are you going to do when it’s _your_ turn?”

“What do you mean?”

“When it’s your turn to give her your memories,” she said, “You won’t be in control. Not like this. No matter how much you focus. What if you slip,” she said, “and she knows what you did to her?”

He shook his head. “I won’t be doing it. I was there most of the time with Dean,” he said, “I can make new memories with her later. Right now I just need to focus on getting her to have some idea about who she is.”

“Without the bad parts.”

“I will do what I have to to keep her safe.”

“Even if it meant she wouldn’t remember you?” Billie asked, “That’s impressive.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, “I’ll be in Dean’s memories. And Mom’s. She’ll know who I am.”

“She’ll know who Sam is,” she said, “In theory. But she won’t know it’s you. You’ll be a stranger to her. Memories are not like video tapes, Sam,” she said, “They’re impressions. Thoughts. She won’t see you in one of her new memories and recognize you in real life. That’s not how this works.”

Fuck. _Fuck._ So unless he wanted her to be paralyzed by his memories of her torture, of what Lucifer showed him, of what he knew about her demon blood addiction, he had to let her go. He had to live with her being his sister, with her knowing it, consciously, but without her connecting him to any of her memories. Unless - unless he could do something.

He had to call Cas.

\--

**August 1995**

You were such a pain in Dean’s ass sometimes.

You liked it, too. You liked to get on his nerves. But you were also a good teammate, a good friend. So when he suggested you sneak out, the one time Dad took Sam away on a hunt alone, to hunt some vampires nearby, you didn’t hesitate. But you did bring your attitude along.

“I just don’t get why you get the machete and I don’t.”

“Because,” Dean said, “We only have one machete. And I’m taller than you. I can angle it better.”

“You’re like one inch taller!”

“Still,” he said, “You keep a look out, I go in.”

“Keep a look out for _what?_ ”

Dean jumped so far and so high, you would’ve laughed if you weren’t pale as a sheet yourself. A group of hunters, you assumed, showed up from the bushes, their machetes resting on their shoulders. “You hunters?” Dean asked.

“Maybe,” one of them said, “You are?”

“Dean,” he said, “Winchester. This is my sister.”

Their eldest hummed. “Any relation to John Winchester?”

You said “No” the exact moment your brother said “Yes.”

“Yes,” Dean repeated, “Why do you ask?”

The hunter shrugged. “You hear stories, that’s all,” he said, “We got the vamps.”

“Oh did you?”

“Yeah,” he said, “All two of them.”

“Two?”

“Yeah,” he told you, “Why?”

“Aren’t there three of them?”

The group exchanged silent looks, and one of them bent his knees a little, lowering his weapon. “Why do you say that?”

“One of the vics disappeared,” you said, “Police didn’t find a body. We assumed they turned her.”

“Oh is that so?”

“Y/N.”

“What, Dean?”

“Run. _Now._ ”

Just as he uttered the words, the three of them bared their teeth, and with three vamps _with_ machetes versus just you and your brother with one machete, you didn’t stand a chance. You ran, both of you, as fast as you could, until you found the truck you’d hotwired a couple of days ago. Dean was fast with his hands, and got you out of there before any of you were turned or sucked dry.

“Are you _stupid?”_

“What?”

“I was giving you the signal!”

“What signal?!”

“The _signal_ ,” Dean said, “The _hey this is a trap_ signal!”

“Am I supposed to read your mind or something?”

“No!” he said, “You’re supposed to pay attention, or you’re gonna get us both killed!”

“I’ve gone on hunts without you before,” you said, “And they went _fine._ ”

“Out of sheer fucking luck, maybe!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Damn right, you are!” he said, “What was I supposed to tell Dad if you’d died, huh?”

“Tell him he has one less problem to worry about.”

“Oh _cry me a river,_ ” he said, “You’re the one who fucked this up. You don’t get to play that card.”

“What card?”

“ _This_ ,” he said, “Just let me be angry, okay?”

“Fine.”

“ _Fine_.” He drove in silence for about fifteen minutes, and then he said, “Just. Listen.”

“What?”

“Whenever we’re out there,” he said, “Whenever we’re hunting, we have to pay attention to each other,” he said, “Okay? Like how we always look at Dad to figure out our next step. So if one of us picks up on something, the other knows, okay?”

“Yeah, fine.”

“Yeah.”

“Great,” he said, “Now can we get some food? All that running made me hungry.”

\--

**Now**

Dean wasn’t good with complex solutions.

It wasn’t that he didn’t get it; he _did._ It just felt like the more twists and turns an answer had, the more likely it was to be the wrong one. The simpler, the more straightforward it was, the easier it was for him to accept it. So when Sam told him to bring everybody to reconstruct their sister’s memories, he didn’t mind.

But when he said he wanted to _tailor-make_ it, that was when his brain halted.

He took Sam down to the garage, along with Cas, to try to understand how the fuck Sam thought this was some sort of a good idea. “Just,” Dean said, “Why?”

“Because you’ve seen her, Dean,” Sam said, “You’ve seen the way she acted around us, ever since she came back, even before she knew about the whole hybrid soul thing. She doesn’t want this life.”

“So you’re just taking it away?”

“I’m just saying,” Sam said, “We can be selective.”

“Doesn’t sound like you.”

“Why not?”

“Aren’t you the one who’s always for the truth?” he asked, “Don’t you get pissed off every time I lie to you to _protect you?_ How’s that any different?”

“Because she gets a _clean slate_ ,” Sam said, “And I’m not about to become the person who ruins that for her. Why does she need to know everything?”

“Because it’s _her life_ , Sam!”

“Yeah, well, her life sucked, and she hated it,” Sam said, “So what now?”

“You said,” Cas started, “That Billie said that if you don’t share any memories with her, she wouldn’t remember you.”

“Yes.”

“Are you _serious?”_

“Yes,” Sam said, “This is why I called you, Cas. I need you to help me only give her some of the stuff.”

“Sam,” Cas said, “She won’t be the same. Whether you like it or not,” he said, “Everything she went through taught her something, made her the person she is, or was.”

“Cas is right,” he said, “We’ll just give her all we got, all we _can_ ,” he said, “And we’ll let her decide what to do with that.”

“But I _know_ , Dean.”

“I know you do,” Dean said, “I know you must’ve seen something in her head, too, but, _Sam._ It’s not right.”

“Then _what is?”_ Sam asked, “Because I can’t bear the thought of her going through all of that _again,_ because of _me_.”

“I know she said we could make this decision for her, in a way,” Dean said, “But it’s not your call. Or mine.”

Sam looked down at his hands. “Some of it is.”

“Sam -”

“I hear what you’re saying about lying to her,” Sam said, “But you can’t make me share my memories with her.”

“So you’d rather lose her.”

“Nothing good ever came out of people getting close to us anyway.”

“She’s not _people_ ,” Dean said, “She’s _us._ ”

“Well,” Sam said, “Maybe she shouldn’t be.”

“What?”

“Maybe she shouldn’t be,” Sam repeated, “Maybe she should get to be someone else for a change.”

\--

**August 2003**

“Are you _deaf?”_

“Bobby!”

You tried to hold onto your headphones before Bobby snatched them away, but you were too slow. He held them up with one hand, and jerked his finger over his shoulder. “Your brother’s here.”

“Tell him _I’m dead!”_

“...why?”

“Oh,” you said, hopping to your knees on the couch. “ _This_ brother.”

Sam put down his backpack, breathing out a laugh. “Yeah,” he said, “ _This_ brother.”

You held out your arms, and he hugged you. “I thought you had this summer quarter thing.”

“It just ended,” he said, “And I have some time before the next one, so I thought I’d come over here.”

“What about your girlfriend?”

“She’s at our place.”

“Your place?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, grinning, “We got a place of our own. Off campus.”

You groaned. “Next thing you know,” you said, “You’ll be graduating. And then you’ll be getting married, having children, and you’ll be _that_ brother.”

“Which is worse than _this_ brother?”

“Of course,” you said, “Can’t you tell?”

“Alright, you two,” Bobby said, “I have to go meet Rufus now. I’ll probably be gone a couple of days, at least,” he said, “You know the ground rules.”

You frowned. “What rules?”

“Y/N.”

“Alright, alright,” you said, “We’ll be good. You take care, Dad.”

Everyone in the room stilled.

“...I mean Bobby. Sorry. Brain fart.”

Sam stared at you, more pensive than amused, you thought, while Bobby just shrugged. “Take care, kid. See ya.”

\--

**Now**

Cas was tired.

Memories, souls - they were more delicate than the Winchesters thought. More vulnerable. They exposed a person; he knew what it was like to be manipulated like that, to have someone decide what he should and should not remember. And he wouldn’t wish that on his enemies, let alone _her._

But Sam was adamant. He refused to see what was right in front of him; no matter what he thought he was causing, or why he thought he was doing what he was doing, there was no good outcome from this. It would destroy him, to lose his sister like that, after all the years he’d spent fighting for her, and it would destroy _her_ , to lose such a central part of who she was.

This might not have held true for other siblings, but the Winchesters’ lives, their fates, have always been closely intertwined. If she lost all her memories with him, of him, she had no chance of becoming the person she once was, or the person she could’ve become. There was no telling what someone like her would do, what someone like her would _be._

She wouldn’t just be a stranger to Sam; she would be a stranger to _everyone._

And the world, in Cas’ opinion, could use every Winchester it could _get._ But the way Sam’s thoughts were going, Cas couldn’t see a way in which he could talk him out of his decision to withdraw his memories. Unless he could show him. Unless he could just do this one thing.

He didn’t have his wings, but he did have the knowledge he gained from studying all those spells those past few months. He gathered the ingredients, including the vile that had the remains of Sam’s blood that Claire gave back before she left, and proceeded to make sure the spell worked as expected. There was a term for that, one of them mentioned it, but he didn’t remember what.

All he knew was that this spell would send Sam back, temporarily. Just for a few moments. Just so he’d _see._

He lit the match on fire, and let it fall in the bowl.

\--

**January 2007**

You fell to your knees in front of your father’s grave.

It wasn’t even a proper grave, just a simple marking. _John Winchester. Not forgotten._ At this point, it had been a few months since Dean had exorcised the demon that possessed you, and you found yourself working a case with your brothers near the place they said they burned your father. So you waited until everyone was asleep, and snuck out.

“Hey, Dad.”

You heard feet shuffling behind you, but you didn’t pay much attention to them. Just what was in front of you. You took out a letter you’d written and buried in your pants, and unfolded it.

“Sam said something the other day,” you said, “About you. About how I never got to say goodbye. But he didn’t know. He didn’t know that I did. He didn’t know I was there that day, just trapped inside _her_.”

The sound behind you stopped.

“I’m not here to blame you,” you said, “I’m not here to ask you why you chose Dean and not me,” you said, “I just want to tell you that I _don’t_ understand. I don’t get why you never loved me the way they did,” you said, “The way they _do._ ”

You paused.

“I don’t care that it took them so long to find me,” you said, “It’s not their fault. But when they found me, even when I told them what happened,” you said, “They still included me. They still loved me. Bobby still loved me. Why couldn’t you?”

You took a deep breath.

“I know I’ve disappointed you,” you said, “I’ll probably disappoint them, too, someday, but I know that no matter what happens,” you said, “No matter what I do, they’ll be there for me. They’ll still want me. No matter what I did,” you said, “Or what happened to me. And this,” you said, “This is why when I think of family,” you said, “When I think of people I want to be around forever,” you said, “I think of them, and not you.

“Maybe someday,” you said, “I’ll be like Sam. I’ll be able to look back and forgive you. But not today,” you said, “Not right now.”

The shuffling sound returned, only this time it was fading away.

“Goodbye, Dad.”

\--

**Now**

“Welcome back, Sam.”

“That was real, wasn’t it?” Sam asked, “The grave? That happened?”

“I was there that day,” Cas said, “Just invisible. I was keeping an eye out. That was before we met.”

“Cas, I can’t -”

“You can, Sam,” he said, “And you _should._ ”

Sam took a deep breath. “Where is she?”

“Upstairs,” Cas said, “Billie transferred Mary’s memories to her. And Agent Deacon’s, and Jody’s, and Claire’s. Next is Dean,” he said, “But he doesn’t want to do it unless you’re there.”

“How long have I been gone?”

“An hour,” Cas said, “Come on.”

Sam followed Cas to the war room, where everyone was sitting or standing around where Billie and Y/N were, like some sci-fi episode of some sort. Dean locked eyes with his brother, and said, “I’mma do it.”

“Okay.”

“Everything,” Dean said, “Everything I know. Everything we’ve done.”

“Are you sure this is the right thing?”

“It’s what I want,” Y/N said.

Sam took a deep breath. “You don’t know what you want.”

“I want to know the truth,” she said, “Everything I can. I know about Mom now,” she said, “I know about her deal. I know about what I became, until I did the cure.”

“It’s not true,” Dean said, “You’ll know when we - it’s just not true.”

“Whatever it is,” she said, “I want to know.”

Jody patted his back reassuringly. He buried his hands in his jacket. “What if you don’t like it?”

“The truth?”

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t matter if I like it,” she said, “Come on. Please.”

Sam cleared his throat. Nodded in Dean’s general direction. “Maybe you should go first.”

“Okay. Billie?”

“Buckle your seatbelts.”

With a soft glow, Billie rested her palms on both their foreheads. Sam had never see anyone display such a vivid, wide range of emotions all at once, and they both mirrored it, exactly the same way. Minutes later, she was done, and they both heaved. Something in her eyes darkened, then. Something in her must’ve _clicked_ somehow, because her shoulders sagged a little, and she didn’t even look at Dean.

“Sorry, kid.”

“Don’t be,” she breathed, “Thanks.”

“Maybe we, uh,” Jody said, “Maybe we should give those guys a few minutes, okay?”

Mary nodded, following Alex, Claire, and Agent Deacon out of the room. Dean opened his mouth to speak, but Y/N held her hand up, and it was so much _like him_ , more than her, that it freaked Sam out a little. “Thank you.”

“What for?” Dean asked.

“I’m not stupid,” she said, “I know those memories feel like mine, but they’re not, not really,” she said, “I don’t know what I thought, back then, but you’ve been a good brother. Even when I was evil.”

“You weren’t.”

“Jury’s still out on that,” she said, the corner of her lips rising. “So, thanks.”

“So,” Billie said, “What’s it gonna be, Sam?”

“I’ll do it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Sam said, “I am. Just. Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Those past few weeks,” he said, “I’ve been rebuilding Bobby’s house.”

She glanced at Dean. “I lived there a lot.”

“That’s an understatement,” Dean said. “But, dude. No way it’s done in less than a month.”

“It’s not,” Sam said, “It’s just. On its way.”

“Okay,” she said, “Why are you telling me that?”

“Because it’s the one thing I know you’d want to do,” he said, “No matter what. So when we’re done here, no matter what happens,” he said, “Promise me you’d give the life you wanted a chance.”

Her smile was so easy, kind, that Sam felt like quitting while he was ahead. “Okay,” she said, “I promise.” She paused. “The water pressure here is pretty awesome, though.”

“...that was one of your memories, Dean?” Sam asked, “Really?”

“No!” Dean said, “Or, maybe - I didn’t _mean to_ -”

“It’s not,” she said, “I’ve been living here, you know. I shower.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“So?”

“Let’s do it.” Sam sat next to her. “I’m ready.”

And he was.

Because all he could think of, everything he could conjure in his mind, was how much they’d gone through together. How much _good_ he’d seen her do. How much good he knew she could do, if she was given a chance. But he also thought of the bad. He thought about what happened. He thought about what he’d seen. He couldn’t help it; it was there, and Billie was _thorough._

He couldn’t see it all, but he could _feel it._

By the time she was done, Y/N was quiet. She didn’t avoid his gaze, like she did Dean’s. She didn’t heave. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t get up and leave, like he’d expected her to. Instead, she turned around, grabbed Dean’s hand, and hugged them both.

“I saw it.”

“What did you see?”

“Everything,” she said, “What I did. What you _know_ I did. When I left you. When I hurt you. All of it.”

“If you want to forget again -”

“You forgave me.”

“What?”

“You _forgave me_ ,” she said, “And I know I’m still missing pieces,” she said, “I know there are parts of my life I’ll never get back but,” she said, “I have all I need right now.”

“Oh my god,” Dean breathed, “You were secretly a hippie all along.”

“You know I know where to hit you, right?”

“...shut up.”

Sam wasn’t an optimist.

But, maybe, just maybe, this one time, he was wrong.

(Fin.)


End file.
